OUR  JLADY 
OF  THE  BEEC 


ii 


OUR  LADY  OF   THE   BEECHES 


OUR  LADY  OF 
THE  BEECHES 

BY   THE 

BARONESS  VON  HUTTEN 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    &    CO 

EitoeraiUe  pre00»  Camfcnttge 

MCMII 


COPYRIGHT,   1902,  BY   BETTINA  VON   HUTTEN 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October,  1902 


To 
H.  H.  R. 

WITH    LOVE 


-2228505 


PROLOGUE   OF   LETTERS 
LETTER    I 

IN  A  BEECH  FOREST,   April  7 

DEAR  PESSIMIST,  —  I  have  read  your 
book  through  three  times;  my  copy 
has  grown  very  shabby;  the  covers  are 
stained,  —  I  dropped  it  in  a  brook;  the 
margins  are  covered  with  penciled 
notes.  In  a  word,  I  love  the  book. 
Does  this  justify  my  writing  to  you, 
an  absolute  stranger?  By  no  means, 
I  should  say  ;  and  yet,  safe  among 
my  beeches,  I  am  not  afraid  of  doing 
so.  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  nor 
you  who  I  may  be,  and  if  you  should 
choose  to  ignore  my  letter,  that  is 

3 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

an  easy  way  of  making  an  end  of  it. 
The  direct  reason  for  my  writing  is 
this. 

The  little  pointed  shadows  of  the 
new  beech  leaves,  dancing  over  the 
ground,  have  reminded  me  of  your 
shadow  theory,  and  I  have  been  won- 
dering whether  you  really  believe  in 
that  theory,  or  whether  it  is  merely  a 
poetic  idea  belonging  to  your  pose  as 
"  The  Pessimist."  Do  you  really  think 
that  no  life  can  be  judged  alone,  "  with- 
out consideration  of  the  shadows  of 
other  lives  that  overlap  it "  ? 

This  theory,  sincerely  believed  in, 
would  lead  to  a  very  comfortable  philo- 
sophy of  irresponsibility,  and  the  more 
I  study  the  Breviary,  the  more  I  won- 
der whether  it  is  sincere,  or  merely 
an  artistic  point  of  view  assumed  for 
the  occasion.  Your  chapter  on  Hamlet 
4 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

is  delicious  —  Hamlet  as  a  neuras- 
thenic, treated  in  a  way  that  tempts 
me  strongly  to  the  belief  that  you  are  a 
physician.  I  wonder!  Is  n't  it  Balzac 
who  says,  "  Les  drames  de  la  vie  ne 
sont  pas  dans  les  circonstances,  —  ils 
sont  dans  le  cceur"? 

I  have  been  sitting  here,  like  Mrs. 
Leo  Hunter's  expiring  frog,  "  on  a  log," 
trying  to  think  over  this  theory  in 
connection  with  yours  of  the  shadows. 
VI  say  trying  to  think,  because,  what- 
ever other  women  may  find  their  brains 
capable  of,  I  much  doubt  whether  my 
own  ever  gets  further  than  musing  — 
or  even  dreaming.  / 

You  say  that  if  Hamlet  had  not  been 
a  nervous  invalid,  the  trifling  shock  of 
his  father's  murder  and  his  mother's 
marriage  would  not  have  been  fatal  to 
him,  —  such  events  being  quite  every- 

5 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE   BEECHES 

day  in  his  age  and  country.  Then  you 
apply  your  shadow  theory  to  him,  the 
shadows  on  his  poor  dazed  brain  of  his 
mother,  of  Ophelia,  etc.,  —  and  go  off 
into  incomprehensibilities  that  make 
my  poor  dazed  brain  whirl. 

I  have  read  and  re-read  the  abstruser 
parts  of  the  book,  trying  to  understand 
with  I  fear  little  success,  but  against 
one  thing  I  protest.  You  speak  of  na- 
ture, and  yet  you  avow  that  your  studies 
are  made  in  a  laboratory!  Wise  as 
you  are  and  ignorant  though  I  am,  I 
am  nearer  nature  here  in  my  forest 
than  you  in  your  laboratory.  The 
things  that  fall  away  from  one,  leaving 
one  almost  a  child,  when  one  is  alone 
with  trees! 

The  tone  of  your  book  is  a  curious 
one.  It  is  not  despairing,  it  is  intel- 
lectual, it  is  charming,  and  yet  —  what 
6 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

is  the  use  of  being  wise  if  it  brings  no 
more  than  it  has  brought  you ! 

Another  thing.  Why  do  you  say 
that  you  do  not  know  German?  You 
do,  for  your  translations  from  poor 
Nietzsche  are  original.  Chapter  5, 
paragraph  2 :  "  Great  people  have  in 
their  very  greatness  great  virtues,  and 
do  not  need  the  small  goodnesses  of 
the  small-brained."  Let  it  go  at  that. 
You  are  a  great  man,  and  do  not  need 
the  bourgeois  virtue  of  truth-telling. 
The  last  remark  is  rather  impertinent, 
but  it  is  one  of  those  spring  days  when 
one  grows  expansive  and  daring,  and, 
after  all,  the  luxury  of  saying  what  one 
likes  is  rare. 

So,  good-by,  Pessimist.  Greetings 
from  my  beech  forest  and  from  myself. 
The  small  brook,  much  interested  in  the 
greenness  of  the  valley,  is  rushing 

7 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

down  over  the  stones  with  the  noisy 
haste  of  things  youthful,  and  I  see  one 
cowslip  in  a  hollow.  I  wonder  if  even 
Pessimists  love  Spring! 

And  if  you  will  be  indulgent  towards 
this  feminine  curiosity  about  your  book, 
which  has  charmed  a  woman  not  easily 
charmed,  let  me  know  just  this  much: 
whether  the  Breviary  expresses  your 
real  convictions,  or  is  written,  as  it  were, 
by  a  fictitious  character. 

If  you  will  tell  me  this  I  shall  be 
very  grateful  to  you,  and  in  any  case 
let  me  thank  you  for  having  charmed 
away  for  me  a  great  many  hours.  Ad- 
dress:— 

MADAME  ANNETTE  BONNET, 

4  bis,  rue  Tambour,  Paris. 


8 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Madame  Bonnet  being  an  old  servant, 
who  will  forward  your  note,  if  you  are 
kind  enough  to  write  one,  to  me  here 
in  my  forest. 


LETTER   II 

IN   A  LABORATORY,    May  7 

To  MY  UNKNOWN  CRITIC,  —  Should 
I  explain,  excuse,  give  a  thousand  and 
one  reasons  why  four  weeks  have  been 
allowed  to  pass  without  my  acknow- 
ledging the  kindly  meant  letter  of  a  gra- 
cious critic  ?  A  "  gentle  "  one,  too,  as 
the  polite  men  of  a  hundred  years  ago 
used  to  say. 

But  why  should  I  answer?  And 
why  do  I  ? 

From  a  beech  forest  to  a  laboratory 
is  a  wide  leap,  a  rude  transition,  one, 
my  critic,  that,  if  you  could  make  it, 
would  cause  you  to  rub  your  eyes,  and 
stare,  and  blink  (forgive  the  unroman- 

10 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

tic  picture  that  I  draw),  and  cry, 
"  Wait  till  I  collect  my  senses." 

It  is  no  wonder  that  you  would  be 
dizzy,  for  a  moment  at  least,  and  think 
that  some  rude  hand  had  roughly  dragged 
you  back  from  a  land  of  dreams,  beau- 
tiful dreams,  into  a  dazzling  light  of 
stern,  hard,  unromantic  facts.  It  is 
all  very  well  to  lie  in  your  beautiful 
forest,  and  watch  the  lights  and  shad- 
ows play,  and  dream  that  you  know 
the  truth. 

Truth  is  not  found  in  dreams,  dear 
lady.  It  is  found,  if  ever,  in  laborious 
observation  of  facts,  in  patient,  drudg- 
ing study  of  nature.  What  do  you 
know  of  truth?  Do  you  not  see  that 
it  is  absurd,  your  calling  me  to  account 
for  my  book?  You  are  idling  with  the 
emotions  that  nature  stirs  within  you, 
and  I  have  studied  that  nature  for 

ii 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

years.  Not  the  nature  only  of  trees  and 
flowers,  but  the  nature  that  is  every- 
thing, —  the  spring  of  the  universe. 
You  watch  a  cowslip  and  fancy  yourself 
close  to  the  heart  of  the  world,  while 
we  scientists  crush  every  emotion  that 
the  real  naked  facts  of  nature  may  not 
be  obscured.  There  is  no  passion  in 
the  soul  of  the  scientist. 

But  I  am  rude,  and  after  all  it  is  only 
a  difference  in  the  point  of  view.  You 
in  your  beech  forest  watch  the  effect 
of  nature  on  the  human  heart,  —  not  on 
the  soul,  as  you  imagine!  We  in  our 
laboratories  see  the  warring  and  antag- 
onizing forces  of  nature  5  the  world  as 
it  is,  not  as  man  loves  to  picture  it  to 
himself.  Why,  then,  dreamer,  do  you 
ask  me  whether  I  really  believe  in  my 
own  theories  ?  Pardon  me  that  I  forgot 
myself  for  the  moment,  and  became  too 

12 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

earnest,  perhaps  impatient,  but  —  you 
"wonder  whether  I  am  really  in  ear- 
nest!" 

If  there  is  one  exasperating  thing  in 
the  world  to  a  man  who  has  spent  his 
best  years  looking  down,  deep  down, 
into  the  recesses  of  life,  seeing  things  as 
they  are,  and  detecting  their  false  color- 
ing as  well  as  the  deceit  practiced  on 
the  senses  of  this  jabbering,  stupid  flock 
of  sheep  called  mankind,  —  it  is  to  be 
told  that  he  does  not  really  believe  in 
what  he  has  learned  by  those  years  of 
hard  work. 

Why  should  I  pretend  to  believe 
something  which  I  do  not?  Is  it  to 
enjoy  the  fancies  excited  by —  But  I 
forget.  You  live  in  a  beech  forest. 

After  all,  everything  is  only  a  ques- 
tion of  the  vibration  of  one's  cerebral 
molecules.  They  vibrate  transversely 

'3 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

and  one  is  displeased, — yours  will  vi- 
brate transversely,  no  doubt,  in  reading 
this  answer  to  your  charming  letter; 
and  though  I  am  bearish,  I  will  admit 
that  mine  vibrated  perpendicularly  on 
reading  your  kind  words  of  apprecia- 
tion. 

About  my  theories,  dear  lady,  the 
little  book  you  have  read  is  only  the 
forerunner  of  a  much  more  comprehen- 
sive, and  much  duller,  volume  which  is 
to  come  out  soon;  may  I  refer  you  to 
that?  I  will  only  say  now,  in  two 
words,  that  I  do  believe  that  everything 
in  the  world  is  relative,  and  that  every 
life  is  a  resultant,  as  physicists  say,  of 
all  the  forces  of  its  environment.  No 
life  could  be  what  it  is  if  isolated  from 
all  others,  —  surely  even  a  dreamer  in 
a  forest  must  know  that  ? 

Only  a  small  fraction  of  the  know- 
H 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ledge  of  any  human  being  can  be  cred- 
ited to  himself.  Ninety-nine  per  cent, 
is  the  result  of  the  accumulated  know- 
ledge of  the  generations  which  have 
preceded  him,  and  of  his  contempora- 
ries. So  his  personality  is  in  part  the 
inherited  characteristics  of  his  ancestors, 
in  part  the  traits  engrafted  upon  the 
soil  by  suggestions  (subtle  and  uncon- 
scious often)  from  the  lives  about  him. 
Upon  him  is  impressed  the  composite 
individuality  of  many  lives. 

But  I  am  talking  too  much,  and  I 
doubt  not  you  will  think  me  garrulous, 
as  well  as  unappreciative!  I  admit  the 
lie  about  the  German,  the  reason  being 
that  my  incognito  must  be  kept,  on 
account  of  the  new  book.  As  a  rule, 
what  you  call  the  "  bourgeois  virtue  " 
of  truth-telling  is  mine.  Forgive  my 
roughness.  Perhaps  to-morrow  —  who 

15 


knows?  —  might  find  me  in  a  milder 
mood,  when  I  would  tear  up  this  un- 
grateful letter.  But  then,  would  I 
write  another? 

Who  are  you?  I  wonder  what  you 
are  like,  whether —  But  it  doesn't 
matter. 


16 


LETTER   III 

May  8 

To  THE  FOREST  DREAMER,  —  Since 
writing  you  I  have  re-read  your  letter, 
and  I  am  struck  with  two  things. 

The  first,  that  I  should  have  written 
as  I  did  to  an  utter  stranger  ;  that  to 
this  stranger,  who  carefully  conceals 
every  trace  of  her  identity,  I,  of  all  men, 
should  have  orated  and  scolded  through 
eight  pages  or  more ! 

The  second  point  that  astonishes  me 
is  that  this  unknown  has  told  me  abso- 
lutely nothing  of  herself  beyond  the  fact 
that  she  once  "  sat  on  a  log  like  an  ex- 
piring frog,"  and  that  "she  wrote  from 
a  beech  forest." 

Do  you  take  my  amazement  amiss? 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

If  so,  I  must  in  defense  offer  half  a 
hundred  or  more  of  letters  —  all  un- 
answered —  sent  to  me  by  as  many 
daughters  of  Eve,  of  many  nations, 
for  you  do  not  appear  to  know  that  the 
Breviary  has  been  translated  into  both 
French  and  German. 

Some  of  these  dear  creatures  have 
sent  me  pages  of  heart-history,  and  one 
or  two  their  photographs.  It  is  an  irony 
of  Fate  that  you,  the  one  whose  letter 
irritated  or  charmed  me  into  a  reply, 
should  be  she  who  tells  me  nothing  of 
herself!  May  I  not  know  something? 
Your  incog,  is  at  least  as  safe  as  mine. 
Though  from  the  shadowy  indications  I 
can  glean  from  your  writing,  your  mode 
of  expression,  etc.,  I  think  I  have  made 
a  picture  from  them  not  wholly  unlike 
the  original:  you  are  not,  I  am  sure, 
more  than  twenty-seven,  you  are  mar- 
18 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ried,  etc.,  but  —  from  the  security  of 
your  forest,  will  you  not  tell  me  a  little 
of  yourself  ? 


LETTER   IV 

IN  THE  BEECHWOOD,   May  28 

To  the  laboratory  from  the  beech- 
wood,  all  hail!  And  you  should  see 
the  grace  with  which  every  bough 
sways  downward,  while  the  glossy 
leaves  quiver  with  pleasure,  and  the 
shadows  —  my  shadows  —  chase  each 
other  across  the  moss,  and  the  cuckoo 
calls. 

So  I  am  a  dreamer?  A  dreamer 
in  a  forest!  Since  writing  to  you,  O 
Pessimist,  this  dreamer  has  been  far 
from  her  dear  trees.  She  has  been 
at  a  court,  she  has  walked  a  quadrille 
with  a  King  and  supped  with  an  Em- 
peror. 

20 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

She  has  worn  satin  gowns  and  jewels 
that  contrasted  oddly  with  her  wind- 
browned  face;  she  has  flirted  lazily 
with  tight- waisted  youths  in  uniform; 
she  has  learned  something  of  a  certain 
great  Power's  China  Policy  that  Presi- 
dent McKinley  would  love  to  know, — 
and  she  has  been  bored  to  death, — 
poor  dreamer! 

Last  night,  near  to-day,  after  a  long 
journey  and  a  two  hours'  drive  through 
a  silvery  world,  she  reached  the  old 
house  among  the  trees  that  she  loves; 
and  now  here  she  is  again,  high  on  the 
hill  in  the  mottled  shadows  at  which 
you  laugh.  The  lilies  of  the  valley 
have  come,  and  the  brook  is  shrinking 
in  the  heat. 

Just  as  she  reached  this  corner  of  the 
world  where  she  idles  away  so  much 
time,  a  cuckoo  called  to  her,  —  the 

21 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

first,  mind  you,  that  she  had  heard  this 
year! 

Instead  of  turning  money  in  her 
pocket,  she  paused,  poor  dreamer,  to 
find  a  happiness  in  her  heart  to  turn! 
The  servant's  explanation  would  be 
incomprehensible  to  you,  if  quoted, 
but  what  he  brought  were  your  two 
letters,  arrived  during  the  tarrying  at 
courts,  and  forgotten  in  the  hurry  of 
arrival. 

Thank  you.  Thank  you  for  telling 
me  that  you  really  do  believe  in  your 
book.  Do  you  know,  Pessimist,  that 
in  spite  of  the  tone  of  the  book,  your 
theories  are  merciful?  f  If  every  life  is 
the  result  of  its  environments,  and  every 
character  the  result  of  heredity  and  sur- 
roundings, then  people  should  judge 
one  another  more  tenderlyj  Without 
knowing  it,  are  you  one  of  those  who 

22 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

have  pessimism  in  their  mouths,  opti- 
mism in  their  hearts  ? 

Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  a  mere 
dreamer  in  a  beech  forest  (do  you  par- 
ticularly despise  beeches?),  for  daring 
to  suggest  thus  a  sort  of  unconscious 
insincerity  in  what  you  profess  to  be- 
lieve. Remember,  opinions  are  merely 
points  of  view,  and  what  I  think  comes 
to  me  partly  from  my  grandfather  the 
bishop,  partly  from  my  great-great- 
great-uncle  the  pirate! 

Joking  aside,  why  must  my  dreams 
in  a  forest  be  of  a  necessity  less  profit- 
able to  me  personally  than  are  to  you 
what  after  all  are  only  your  dreams  in 
a  laboratory?  God  —  and  I  mean  the 
universal  Master,  not  the  prejudiced 
president  of  any  narrow  sect  —  gave  us 
nature  as  a  guide,  or  at  least  as  a  help. 

23 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Do  you,  among  your  crucibles  and  tests, 
find  the  peace  and  rest  that  I  do  here 
under  my  great,  quiet,  understanding 
trees  ? 

And  I  am  not  a  child  —  nor  even 
an  elderly  child  —  of  nature.  I  may 
be  a  dreamer,  but  I  am  a  woman  of 
the  world  with  open  eyes,  and  I  know 
that  what  I  see  in  the  world  I  learn  to 
understand  here,  far  from  its  din  and 
hurry. 

The  wood  is  full  of  cuckoo-clocks, 
striking  all  sorts  of  impossible  hours, 
—  dream-hours,  dream-clocks,  —  de- 
spise them  as  much  as  you  like,  for  you 
haven't  them,  poor  scientist!  Now 
the  nearest  dream-clock  has  struck 
twenty-three,  which  is  time  for  lilies- 
of-the-valley-picking,  so  good-by. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter.  I  say  for 
your  letter  because  the  second  was 
24 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

simply  a  burst  of  graceful  inconsistency. 
If  I  am  only  a  bundle  of  molecules, 
cerebral  and  otherwise,  why  should  you 
wish  to  know  what  I  look  like,  and 
who  I  am? 

Believe  me,  your  desire  is  —  let  us 
say  —  nothing  but  an  irregular  vibra- 
tion of  cerebral  molecules!  and  I  am 
"  as  other  men  (sic  /)  are,  I  am  just 
Snug  the  Joiner." 

This  is  a  leaf  from  the  biggest,  wisest, 
and  dearest  of  my  beeches.  It  has  just 
fluttered  down  to  me,  and  I  think 
wishes  to  go  to  you.  Good-by. 


LETTER  V 

June  10 

AND  so  you  are  still  to  be  a  myth  to 
me,  my  Fair  Unknown  ?  Well,  —  it 
does  not  matter.  Thank  you  for  your 
letter.  You  are  a  poet.  I  like  you, 
I  like  your  forest,  I  like  your  brook 
and  your  cuckoos.  Won't  you  tell  me 
more  of  them? 

So  you  find  my  questions,  my  cu- 
riosity, inconsistent  with  devotion  to 
science?  Why?  There  is  a  type  of 
New  England  woman  who  thinks  that 
when  a  man  marries  he  becomes  a 
monk.  Do  you  think  that  because  a 
man  takes  the  study  of  nature  as  his 
life-work,  he  becomes  a  monk  ?  Rather, 
is  not  a  woman  part  of  nature  ?  And 
26 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

because  I  have  written  a  somewhat  dry 
book,  am  I  to  have  no  interest  in  things 
charming?  I  rather  think  my  cerebral 
molecules  are  jingling  and  tingling  over 
your  letter  as  much  as  would  those  of 
any  one  of  your  tight- waisted  lieutenants. 
However,  to-morrow  comes  work  again, 
and  you  will  be  forgotten. 

So  my  forest  dreamer  has  been  to 
court,  and  danced  with  kings  and  em- 
perors, and  —  been  bored  to  death 
withal.  I  wonder  whether  she  felt  like 
Alice,  when  she  told  her  Wonderland 
kings,  "  You  are  nothing  but  a  pack  of 
cards  "  ? 

At  all  events,  I  am  glad  that  my 
dreamer  is  a  woman  of  the  world,  and 
because  of  being  that,  fond  of  her  beech 
forest.  This  all  tells  me  much/  And 
so  you  are  "  as  other  men  are  " !  When 
a  woman  is  as  other  men  are,  she  has 

27 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

developed  much  that  most  women  do 
not  know.  She  is  a  woman  of  whom  a 
man  may  make  a  friend.  They  speak 
the  same  language,  think  the  same 
thoughts, — and  each  knows  that  the 
other  can  understand.  Good-night. 
Write  me  again. 


tf&y**£(£*~&?  (J 


28 


LETTER    VI 

June  26 

AFTER  being  called  a  "  Fair  Un- 
known," it  is  painful  to  be  obliged  to 
undeceive  you.  However,  I  must  do 
this,  for  though  my  cerebral  molecules 
may  be  charming,  I  am  outwardly  not 
attractive.  I  was  born  with  slightly 
crossed  eyes  and  large  red  ears,  which 
misfortune  many  tears  have  failed  to 
remedy. 

I  notice  a  startling  amount  of  world- 
liness  in  your  last  letter,  and  as  I  fear 
you  will  no  longer  care  to  hear  from 
a  person  afflicted  as  I  am,  I  will  take 
time  by  the  forelock  and  bid  you 
good-by  now. 

Ainsi,  adieu. 

29 


LETTER   VII 


July  10 


IT  is  not  true!  Do  you  think  that 
science  is  a  study  so  unprofitable  that 
I  have  devoted  myself  to  it  for  years 
without  having  learned  something  of 
cause  and  effect? 

No  woman  with  crossed  eyes  and 
(Heaven  save  the  mark)  "  large  red 
ears  "  could  ever  have  written  the  let- 
ters you  have  written  me ! 

You  are  not  only  charming,  but  you 
are  beautiful.  I'd  stake  my  profes- 
sional reputation  on  this.  Your  forest, 
your  kings  and  emperors,  your  cuckoos 
and  cowslips,  may  be  all  a  pose;  you 
may  be  old,  you  may  be  Madame  An- 
nette Bonnet  yourself  for  all  I  know, 
3° 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

but  you  are,  or  have  been,  beautiful; 
men  have  loved  you,  women  have  en- 
vied you,  you  have  known  power. 

Deny  this,  if  you  dare,  on  your  word 
of  honor! 


31 


LETTER    VIII 

August  10,  THE  LABORATORY 

ARE   you   never    going   to    write    me 
again  ? 


LETTER   IX 

August  25,  BERLIN 

No. 


33 


LETTER  X 

September  17 

DEAR  PESSIMIST,  —  Did  you  think 
me  very  horrid?  Did  your  cerebral 
molecules  rub  each  other  into  shreds, 
—  transverse  shreds? 

It  was  not  nice  of  me,  but  I  was  not 
in  a  letter-writing  frame  of  mind,  and 
I  could  n't  write,  even  to  you  whom  I 
don't  know.  I  was  away  from  home, 
amid  crowds  of  people,  —  people  I 
don't  like;  I  was  worried  and  irritated 
in  more  ways  than  one. 

And  now! 

Here  I  am  again  by  my  brook,  which 
is  rushing  noisily  in  frantic  haste,  swol- 
len by  recent  rain;  the  birches,  dear 
butterfly  trees,  are  losing  their  poor 
34 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

wings;  there  are  coppery  lights  on  the 
beech  leaves;  the  ferns  are  drying,  and 
here  and  there  the  duskiness  of  autumn 
is  lit  by  the  scarlet  of  a  poisonous  fun- 
gus. Quite  near  me  is  a  lizard's  hole, 
and  out  of  it  peers  a  small  bright  eye. 
I  like  lizards.  One  of  my  happinesses 
is  that  of  being  free  from  little  fears  — 
fears  of  bats;  of  poor  wee  snakes;  of 
blundering  winged  things.  The  only 
thing  of  the  kind  of  which  I  have  a 
horror  is  the  creature  called  a  "  black 
beetle,"  and  as  I  have  never  seen  one, 
and  know  it  chiefly  through  a  trans- 
lation of  Le  Petit  Chose  that  I  read 
when  almost  a  child,  I  cannot  say  that 
the  horror  is  very  vivid.  But  this  is 
absurd,  my  writing  you  about  black 
beetles ! 

Your  last  letter,  or  last  but  one,  was 

35 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

amusing.  I  neither  affirm  nor  deny  the 
truth  of  what  you  say  in  it,  but  it 
amused  me.  You  say,  O  Wise  Man, 
that  men  have  loved,  women  envied 
me.  And  have  I  loved  any  man,  and 
envied  any  woman?  You  see,  I  am  in 
a  sentimental  September  mood. 

I  have  been  learning  how  I  missed 
my  trees  during  the  hot,  hot  days,  and 
how  my  trees  missed  me,  —  the  days 
when  a  blue  mist  softens  the  distance, 
when  the  pine-smell  is  the  strongest, 
the  shadows  the  blackest  of  the  year, 
when  no  place  on  earth  is  bearable  ex- 
cept the  depths  of  a  thick-knit  wood. 
Don't  snub  me  by  calling  this  poetical, 
for  you  know  you  wrote  that  you 
wished  to  hear  about  my  trees  and  my 
brook,  —  which  was  crafty  of  you ! 

To-day  I  have  visited  all  my  deserted 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

friends;  the  dream  tree,  the  wisdom 
tree,  —  a  great  beech,  the  butterfly  tree, 
and  they  all  looked  sadly  at  me,  and  I 
at  them.  The  face  in  the  wisdom  tree, 
a  combination  of  knots  and  branches, 
cowled  in  summer  by  leaves,  frowns  at 
me  to-day  in  evident  disapproval  of  my 
wasted  midsummer.  A  bird  has  built 
her  nest  in  one  of  the  eyes,  which  some- 
how gives  it  the  air  of  the  sternest  of 
monkish  confessors.  Only  the  cedars 
and  pines  and  firs  are  unchanged. 
They  are  tonic,  but  a  wee  bit  unsym- 
pathetic. One  great  fir  has  a  wound  in 
his  side  as  large  as  my  hand,  but  he 
holds  his  head  as  erect  as  ever,  and 
does  not  seem  to  notice  his  heart's 
blood  oozing  down  his  rough  bark.  I 
should  not  dare  pity  him,  which  is  fatal 
to  a  true  sympathy.'  I  found  a  mush- 

37 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

room,  and  ate   it.      Perhaps   it  was    a 
toadstool. 

You  will  think  me  mad,  you  will 
snub  me. 

I  don't  mind  being  thought  mad,  for 
I  am  used  to  it,  and  rather  agree  with 
the  theory  in  my  heart  of  hearts;  but  I 
object  to  being  snubbed.  So,  to  avoid 
that,  let  me  hasten  to  snub  you  first.  I 
saw  in  Amiel's  Journal,  the  other  day,  a 
most  fitting  sentiment,  which  please  ac- 
cept with  my  compliments:  "  Science 
is  a  lucid  madness,  occupied  in  tabu- 
lating its  own  hallucinations." 

Think  me  crazy,  "  tabulate  "  me,  and 
go  on  making  nasty  messes  in  crucibles, 
—  or  are  crucibles  the  soap-bubbly 
things  that  explode  ?  —  but  if  your  lab- 
oratory holds  one  single  object  as  con- 
soling to  you  on  blue  days  as  is  one  of 
33 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

my  trees  to  me,  even  on  a  wet  Septem- 
ber evening,  I  '11  eat  that  object! 

The  sun  is  going  down  the  hill,  and 
so  must  I.     Good-night. 


39 


LETTER  XI 

IN  THE  WILDS  OF  MAINE,    October  2 

BONJOUR,  1'Inconnue !  Your  letter  has 
just  been  brought  to  me,  and  though 
Heaven  knows  you  don't  deserve  it,  I 
sit  down  at  once  by  the  lake,  to  answer. 
I  missed  you,  cross-grained  though  I 
am,  and  though  I  fully  recognize  the 
way  in  which  you,  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches,  intend  to  use  this  humble  de- 
votee, I  am  glad  to  hear  from  you 
once  more,  and  put  myself  at  your  dis- 
position. 

Your  kings  and  queens,  your  people 
whom  you  "  don't  like,"  know  nothing 
of  the  dreamer.  They  know  the  slightly 
mocking  writer  of  your  letter  of  June 
26,  —  they  know  nothing  of  the  beech 
40 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

forest,  nothing  of  the  impetuous,  natural, 
warm-hearted  woman  that  the  Primo 
Facto  meant  you  to  be. 

And  I,  insignificant  scientific  worm, 
am  to  be  your  safety  valve.  Did  you 
think  I  did  not  realize  all  this?  As 
you  never  intend  to  tell  me  who  you 
are,  you  feel  safe.  You  are  safe.  No 
one  shall  ever  see  one  of  your  letters, 
and  I  shall  make  no  effort  to  find  you 
out. 

Dear  lady,  will  your  crossed  eyes 
twinkle  with  amusement  when  I  tell 
you  that  your  letters  have  been  the 
means  of  sending  me  up  here,  away 
from  the  haunts  of  woman,  to  rest  an 
over-tired  nervous  system?  Without 
the  small  packet  in  my  writing-table 
I  should  have  betaken  myself  to  the 
comparative  simplicity  of  Bar  Harbour; 
•with  the  small  packet  I  came  here, — 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

three  weeks  ago.  I  am  alone,  but  for 
my  guide.  There  are  little  beech-trees 
here,  too,  —  a  few,  —  many  pines,  a 
small  lake,  birds,  and  quiet.  In  spite 
of  these  charming  things,  however,  I 
am  not  happy.  The  quiet  gets  on  my 
nerves,  and  if  your  letter  had  not  come 
to-day,  I  should  probably  have  been  off 
to-morrow. 

Solitude  is  bad,  I  see,  for  me.  My 
sins  loom  great  among  the  rusty  pine 
stems,  my  neglected  opportunities  stare 
me  in  the  face,  my  utter  insignificance 
is  brought  home  to  me  in  a  way  I  do 
not  like.  You  are  too  young  to  feel 
the  reproach  of  wasted  years,  or  you 
could  not  love  your  forest  as  you  do. 

( May  I  know  your  age  ?  And  —  do 
not  snub  me  —  if  you  have  troubles 
small  enough  to  be  talked  about,  and 
choose  to  do  so,  tell  me  them.  ',  Advice 

/ 

42 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

helps  no  mortal,  but  it  suggests  self- 
help. 

Now  good-by.  I  must  go  and  make 
coffee.  I  suppose  you  do  not  know  the 
smell  of  coffee  rising  among  sunbaked 
pines  ? 


43 


LETTER  XII 

LONDON,   October  25 

So  you  will  be  my  confessor,  my  pa- 
tient safety  valve?  Are  you  not  afraid 
of  being  overwhelmed  by  an  avalanche 
of  sentimental  semi-woes?  What  if  I 
should  write  you  that  I  am  that  most 
appalling  creature,  une  femme  incom- 
-prise?  Or  that  I  am  pining  with  love 
for  a  man  not  my  husband?  Or  that 
I  adore  my  husband,  while  he  wastes 
his  time  in  greenrooms?  Or  —  or  — 
or —  Pessimist,  where  is  thy  pessi- 
mism, that  thou  riskest  such  a  fate  ? 

However,  as  it  happens,  I  have  no 
woes  to  pour  into  even  your  sympa- 
thetic and  invisible  ear.     I  am  quite  as 
happy  as  my  neighbors,  and  even  of  a 
44 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

rather  cheerful  disposition.  Bored  at 
times,  of  course,  —  who  isn't?  That 
is  all. 

In  a  few  days  I  go  to  Paris,  after  a 
very  charming  visit  in  England,  where 
I  have  met  many  very  interesting  and 
delightful  people,  among  others  the 
Great  Man. 

He  is  a  great  man,  the  Napoleon  of 
the  eye-glass,  though  I  have  heard  that 
he  is  not  Napoleonic,  in  that  he  has  a 
conscience,  whose  existence  he  care- 
fully hides  behind  a  mask  of  expedi- 
ency. It  amused  me,  while  stopping 
in  the  house  with  this  man  and  studying 
in  a  humble  way  his  face  and  his  man- 
ners, to  read  certain  European  papers 
describing  him  as  slyness  and  unscrupu- 
lousness  in  person! 

Do  you  know  England  socially  ?  It 
is  a  curiously  anomalous  country.  Re- 

45 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

spectability  is  its  God,  yet  it  readily, 
almost  admiringly,  forgives  the  little 
slips  of  its  smart  people.  One  woman, 
Lady  X,  told  me,  "Oh  yes,  Lord  Y 
is  my  aunt  Lady  F's  lover."  On  see- 
ing my  expression,  she  added,  with  a 
laugh,  "  Everybody  has  known  it  for 
years,  so  some  one  else  would  have 
told  you  if  I  had  n't.  Besides,  she  is 
received  everywhere"  So  she  is.  An 
awful  old  woman  with  a  yellow  wig, — 
poor  soul. 

So  you  do  not  love  solitude?  And 
you  miss  people.  Possibly  I  love  my 
beeches  so  much,  because  I  can  never 
be  alone  with  them  more  than  a  few 
hours  at  a  time.  Possibly,  but  I  don't 
believe  it. 

My  portrait  has  just  been  done  by  a 
great  English  painter,  and  I  was  greatly 
pleased  that  he  himself  suggested  doing 
46 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

it  out  of  doors !  The  background  is  a 
laurel  hedge,  glistening  and  gleaming 
in  the  sun.  The  picture  is  good,  but  it 
flatters  me. 

I  have  been  trying  again  to  under- 
stand the  more  scientific  parts  of  the 
book,  but  I  can't!  This  will  probably 
reach  you  in  your  beloved  laboratory. 
Are  your  fingers  brown  and  purple? 
Do  you  wear  an  apron  when  you  work  ? 
If  so,  I  will  make  you  one! 

Good-by,  and  a  pleasant  winter  to 
you.  Thanks  for  the  kindness  in  your 
letter. 


47 


LETTER   XIII 

THE  LABORATORY,  November  1 1 

PLEASE  make  me  an  apron !     Could  it 
have  a  beech-leaf  pattern  ? 

Thanks  for  your  charming  letter, 
which  I  will  answer  soon.  I  am  just 
off  to  Paris,  —  affaire  de  Sorbonne. 
Don't  mock  at  my  laboratory,  dear  Our 
Lady  of  the  Beeches !  I  have  been  as 
happy  as  a  child  ever  since  I  got  back 
to  it.  Forests  may  be  all  very  well  for 
the  young,  —  I  am  too  old  for  them 
and  need  hard  work.  Good-by! 


48 


LETTER  XIV 

December  13,  THE  LABORATORY 

DEAR  LADY,  —  I  sit  by  my  table.  The 
"  soap-bubbly  things  that  explode  "  are 
pushed  aside,  to  make  room  for  an 
electric  lamp;  I  am  beautiful  to  behold 
in  the  beech-leaf  pattern  apron! 

I  landed  yesterday,  to  find  the  pack- 
age awaiting  me,  and  the  contents  ex- 
ceeded my  wildest,  most  sanguine  ex- 
pectations! Did  you  yourself  put  in  all 
those  wee  stitches?  I  notice  that  the 
border  is  sewed  on  extra,  —  did  you  do 
it?  It  took  me  some  time  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  the  strings,  —  it  is  years 
since  I  wore  a  bib, — but  now,  they  are 
neatly  tied  around  my  waist  and  about 


49 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

my  neck.  It  falls  in  graceful  folds,  — 
it  is  perfect. 

There  is  only  one  drawback  to  my 
happiness  in  my  new  possession,  —  the 
well-founded  fear  of  making  a  spot  on 
it,  or  burning  a  hole  in  it!  By  the  way, 
speaking  of  burning  holes  in  things,  I 
burnt  a  large  one,  the  other  day,  in  my 
thumb,  —  luckily  my  left  one.  It  hurt 
like  mad,  kept  me  awake  two  or  three 
nights,  and  did  no  good  to  my  tem- 
per. 

Once  I  got  up  (it  was  in  Paris,  you 
know)  and  went  out  for  a  tramp.  You 
don't  know  the  Paris  of  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  It  had  rained,  there 
was  a  ragged  mist,  the  lights  reflected 
their  rays  in  ruts  and  pools;  the  abomi- 
nation of  desolation  is  Paris  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  —  to  cross- 
grained  foot  passengers.  You  were  in 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Paris  that  night,  probably  dancing  at 
some  ball  —  "  lazily  flirting  with  a 
tight- waisted  "  somebody. 

I  thought  of  you  as  I  plodded  through 
the  dreary  streets,  and  laughed  at  the 
remembrance  of  my  first  letter  to  you, 
—  a  pedantic  outpouring  of  heavy- 
handed  indignation.  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches  must  have  smiled  at  it.  Will 
she  smile  again  at  what  I  'm  going  to 
tell  her  now?  A  carriage  passed  me 
at  a  corner  of  the  rue  Royale,  and  the 
lights  flashed  over  the  face  of  its  oc- 
.cupant;  a  woman  wrapped  in  a  dark 
fur  cloak.  The  idea  came  to  me  that 
it  was — you.  I  wonder!  She  had 
lightish,  brilliant  hair  and  a  rather  tired 
face. 

If  I  had  been  —  well  —  several  years 
younger,  I  should  have  followed  the 
carriage;  but  I  remembered  my  pro- 
Si 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

mise,  and  let  it  pass  without  hailing  the 
hansom  near  by.  The  horses  were 
grays,  the  carriage  dark  green  —  I  did 
n't  notice  the  livery. 

Rue  Tambour,  4  bis  —  it  was  n't 
breaking  my  word  to  drive  to  rue  Tam- 
bour, was  it?  I  walked  in  a  pouring 
rain  (good  for  a  feverish  thumb !)  the 
length  of  the  deserted  street  to  4  bis. 
Six  stories  high,  respectable,  dull,  with 
a  red  light  in  the  hall.  And  there 
dwells  Madame  Annette  Bonnet,  sweet 
sleep  to  her. 

Where  are  you  now  ?  Lady  without 
troubles,  in  what  part  of  the  world  are 
you  smiling  away  the  winter  in  cheer- 
ful content? 

Write  me  again  when  the  spirit 
moveth  you. 

The  night  I  visited  rue  Tambour  was 
November  26. 
52 


LETTER  XV 

RUE  TAMBOUR,   4  BIS,  PARIS 

Christmas  Day 

THE  night  you  visited  rue  Tambour 
I  sat  high  up  in  4  bis,  watching  a  sick 
woman. 

My  poor  old  nurse  was  taken  ill  a 
few  days  before,  and  as  she  has  only 
me  in  the  world,  I  moved  from  my 
hotel  here,  and  have  been  with  her  ever 
since.  I  leave  to-morrow,  but  have  a 
fancy  for  writing  to  you  from  here,  so 
forgive  this  paper,  which  I  could  n't 
wound  her  by  refusing,  and  try  to 
admire  the  gilt  edges. 

How  curious  that  you  should  have 
been  rodering  about  underneath  our 
windows  that  night.  It  was  her  worst 

53 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

one,  and  I  sat  up  till  dawn.  Several 
times  I  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  at  the  rain.  I  was  very, anxious 
and  very  sad.  I  love  old  Annette;  she 
gave  me  all  the  mothering  I  ever  had, 
and  one  doesn't  forget  that. 

The  young  doctor,  hastily  called  in 
when  she  fainted,  was  unsatisfactory, 
being  too  busy  trying  to  show  me,  in 
delicate  nuances,  his  full  appreciation 
of  the  strangeness  of  the  presence  in 
that  house  of  such  a  woman  as  I;  the 
nurse,  a  stupid  Sister  of  Charity,  made 
me  very  nervous.  If  I  had  known  you 
were  below,  who  knows  whether  I 
would  not  have  rushed  down  for  a  word 
of  sympathy?  But  now  I  am  happier 
again,  the  dear  old  woman  is  nearly 
well,  and  her  sweet  taking-for-granted 
of  my  kindness  to  her,  better  than  all 
the  gratitude  in  the  world. 
54 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Thanks  for  your  letter.  I  am  glad 
that  you  like  the  apron.  I  did  make  it 
myself,  —  every  stitch,  and  a  terrible 
time  I  had  finding  the  famous  beech- 
leaf  pattern !  Only  please  wear  it,  burn 
holes  in  it  (instead  of  your  poor  thumb), 
and  really  use  it.  Then,  when  it  is 
worn  out,  I  '11  make  you  another.  Did 
I  tell  you  how  old  I  am?  I  am  twenty- 
nine. 

By  the  way,  olive  oil  and  lime  water 
is  a  very  good  remedy  for  burns.  Re- 
member this,  as  you  will  doubtless  go 
on  burning  yourself  from  time  to  time ! 
Good-by. 


55 


LETTER  XVI 

January  14,  THE  LABORATORY 

DEAR  LADY,  —  What,  in  your  wisdom, 
do  you  think  of  this  story?  A  wo- 
man, whom  I  have  known  for  more 
years  than  she  would  care  to  remember, 
has  just  enlivened  us  by  running  away 
from  her  husband  with  a  man  whom 
every  one  knows  and  nearly  every  one 
dislikes.  The  town  has  been  agog  with 
the  tale  for  the  past  week;  it  has  been 
the  occasion  of  much  excited  conversa- 
tion at  two  or  three  dinners  where  I  was, 
and  the  different  view-points  of  differ- 
ent people  have  interested  me  greatly. 
The  retrospective  keenness  of  observa- 
tion of  almost  all  those  men  and  women 
is  delightful;  but  as  for  myself,  though 
56 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

I  have  known  many  men  and  some 
women,  and  flattered  myself  that  I 
knew  more  than  a  little  about  human 
nature,  this  case  has  floored  me.  Lis- 
ten, and  then  tell  me  what  you  think. 
She  is  a  woman  of  forty-two  or  three, 
handsome,  fairly  clever,  masterful,  with 
a  faint  idea  of  metaphysics  and  some 
knowledge  of  archaeology.  Her  hus- 
band is  a  good  sort,  with  plenty  of 
money,  who  let  her  do  about  as  she 
liked,  —  even  to  the  extent  of  blacken- 
ing her  eyebrows.  The  other  man  is 
thirty-four,  with  padded  shoulders  and 
a  lisp.  He  wears  opal  shirt-studs,  and 
was  formerly  suspected  of  a  bracelet. 
He  has  no  money,  no  profession,  no 
prospects.  Off  they  went  one  moon- 
light night,  and  as  Mr. will  divorce 

her,  they  will    marry,   and    live  on  — 
love,  in  New  Jersey.     Do  you  think  it 

57 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

possible  for  two  rational  beings  to  live 
on  love,  in  New  Jersey?  And  yet  they 
must  love  each  other,  or  they  would  n't 
have  done  it. 

The  question  and  the  collateral  ones     , 
suggested  by  it  have  been  distracting     T 
me  greatly.     When  I   was  twenty,  or 
even  twenty-five,  I  could  —  in  fact  did 
—  believe  in  the  sufficiency  of  one  many 
and  one  woman  to  each   other.  '"1   no 
longer  do,  however,  and  know  few  peo- 
ple who  could  swear  to  such  a  belief. 
My  sister-in-law,  a  clever  woman,  with 
whom  I  have  discussed  the  affair,  seems 
inclined  to  envy  them,  —  she  herself  has 
been  a  widow  for  years,  and  shows  no 
disposition  to   change   her  estate;    but 
I   am  conscious  of  pitying  them  both. 
Are  n't  they  going  to  wake  up  in  a  few 
weeks  at  most,  and  loathe  each  other? 
Tell  me  what  you  think  ? 
53 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Even  assuming  that  Browning  is 
right  in  his  Soul-Sides  theory,  must  not 
two  people,  as  isolated  as  they  must  be, 
be  bored  to  death  by  each  other's  soul- 
sides  after  a  time  ?  People  rarely  tell 
each  other  the  whole  truth  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  such  questions,  chiefly  be- 
cause every  one  has  a  certain  amount 
of  pose ;  but  you,  woman  of  the  world, 
from  your  forest,  could  tell  me  fear- 
lessly your  inmost  thoughts  about  the 
matter.  If  you  wish  to ! 

I  like  to  think  of  you  caring  for  your 
old  nurse,  and  I  am  glad  you  were  in 
the  house  that  night  when  the  spirit  in 
my  feet  led  me  to  it. 

This  disembodied  friendship  has  a 
great  charm  for  me,  and  I  like  knowing 
of  you  all  that  you  will  allow  me  to, 
though  I  grant  you  that  did  we  know 
each  other  personally  much  of  the  in- 

59 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

terest  would  be  lost.  You  are  wise  in 
telling  me  nothing  of  your  outside  per- 
sonality, your  name,  your  home,  your 
looks,  etc.,  but  let  me  know  what  you 
can  of  your  character,  your  thoughts, 
your  feelings. 

I  would  willingly  tell  you  my  name, 
but  it  would  not  interest  you,  and 
would  change  the  whole  attitude  of 
things,  perhaps  disastrously  to  me. 
We  would  be  friends  if  we  met,  you 
and  I,  but  each  would  keep  from  the 
other  something  that  he  or  she  would 
tell  the  next  comer.  Our  view-points 
would  influence,  not  the  character  of 
each  other,  but  what  each  would  be 
willing  to  show  the  other. 

Would  there  not  be  a  great  charm  in 

being  absolutely  truthful  to  each  other 

by  letter  ?     In    showing  each  other  — 

you  know  what  I  mean.     The  idea  is 

60 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

not  original,  but  we  have  drifted  uncon- 
sciously into  the  beginning  of  an  origi- 
nal exposition  of  it. 

I  am  over  forty  years  old.  I  have 
never  had  any  especial  fondness  for 
women  as  a  whole;  I  am  a  busy  man, 
with  an  engrossing  life-work  that,  even 
were  my  temperament  other,  would 
prevent  my  ever  trying  to  penetrate 
your  incognito. 

You  are  a  young  and  (I  insist)  beau- 
tiful woman,  living  in  the  world,  occu- 
pied with  the  million  interests  of  the 
woman  of  the  world;  consoled  on  the 
other  hand  for  the  inevitable  slings  and 
arrows  of  life  by  a  curiously  strong  love 
of  nature  and  a  certain  intelligent  cu- 
riosity as  to  things  abstruse. 

Granted,  then,  that  I  am  (alas!)  no 
impetuous  boy,  to  fall  in  love  with  you 
and  rush  across  the  world  to  find  you 

61 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

out,  —  that  you  are  no  lonely  senti- 
mentalist with  a  soul-hunger,  —  why 
not  be  friends  ? 

You  say  you  have  no  troubles. 
Good!  Then  tell  me  your  joys.  What 
I  shall  be  able  to  give  you,  Heaven 
knows!  I  am  asking  much,  and  can 
probably  give  little  —  or  nothing, 
though  one  thing  I  can  do.  I  can  send 
you  books,  if  you  will  let  me,  books 
that  would  never  come  in  your  way, 
probably,  and  that  you  will  love. 

And  you  will  —  do !  —  give  me  many 
pleasant  thoughts,  instantaneous  day- 
dreams, so  to  say,  gleams  of  sunshine 
that  brighten  my  hours  of  hard  work. 

This  has  grown  to  be  a  volume,  and 
if,  after  all,  you  only  laugh  at  me,  O 
dreamer  ?  I  '11  only  say,  if  you  must 
snub,  snub  gently! 

There  is  a  heart-breaking  hole  burnt 
62 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

in  the  front  breadth  (!)  of  the  apron, 
and  a  terrible  tear  at  the  root  of  one 
of  the  bib-strings.  I  forgot  I  had  an 
apron  on,  and  nearly  hanged  myself  get- 
ting down  from  a  ladder  on  which  I  'd 
been  standing,  driving  some  nails  in 
the  wall.  My  sister-in-law  mended  it, 
and  offered  even  to  make  me  another, 
but  I  would  n't  have  it. 

I  hope  you  've  not  forgotten  your 
promise  ? 

Dear  Lady  of  the  Beeches,  good-by. 


LETTER  XVII 

February  i 
In  a  small  room  high  in  a  tower 

WHY  should  I  snub  you?  On  the 
contrary  I  am  pleased  —  flattered,  pos- 
sibly —  by  your  letter.  Another  thing, 
—  you  have  put  into  words  something 
that  I  have  felt  for  years.(  The  influ- 
ence of  the  character  of  another  person, 
not  on  one's  own  character,  but  on  the 
choice  of  the  side  of  one's  character 
that  one  is  willing  to  show  that  personJ 
If  I  have  a  virtue  (besides  that  of 
modesty,  you  see!)  it  is  that  of  frank- 
ness. I  think  I  may  honestly  say  that 
I  know  no  woman  with  less  of  con- 
scious pose.  Yet  even  when  striving 
with  somewhat  untoward  circumstances 
64 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

to  be  perfectly  natural,  I  am  conscious 
of  something  more  than  mere  justifiable 
reserve. 

The  side  I  show  to  one  person  is 
never,  do  what  I  will,  the  same  side  I 
show  to  another,  and,  as  the  French  say, 
that  afflicts  me,  in  morbid  moments. 
"  Each  life  casts  a  shadow,  be  it  ever 
so  slight,  on  the  lives  about  it,  and  is 
shadowed  by  those  lives.  The  sun 
showing  through  a  combination  of 
blue  and  green,  though  the  same  sun, 
throws  a  light  different  from  that  which 
it  throws  when  it  shines  through  blue 
and  red." 

You  will  remember  this  quotation, 
though  it  is  not  exact. 

In  moments  of  self-confidence,  which 
are  more  frequent  than  the  morbid 
ones,  I  tell  myself  that  one  must  respect 
one's  moods,  which  are  a  part  of  one's 

65 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

self  after  all.  Am  I  right?  Is  this  a 
bit  of  what  you,  O  Wise  Man,  call  so 
gently  "  an  intelligent  interest  in  things 
abstruse  "  ? 

This  interest  in  one's  self,  in  one's 
motives,  is  of  course  a  kind  of  vanity, 
but  surely  if  one  honestly  tries,  one  can 
learn  to  know  one's  self  better  than 
any  other  person's  self,  and  one's  self 
belongs  to  humanity  as  much  as  doe 
one's  neighbor. 


does 


So  we  are  to  be  friends.  I  am  glad. 
I  am  glad  you  are  not  young,  I  am  glad 
you  are  a  busy  man.  And  you  must 
indeed  be  busy  between  your  laboratory 
and  your  metaphysics.  I  like  busy 
men,  and  I  am  glad  you  understand  so 
well  the  advantages  of  our  not  knowing 
each  other  personally. 

Frankly,  I  should  be  terribly  influ- 
66 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

enced  by  external  things.  It  could 
never  be  the  same.  If  your  eyes  hap- 
pened to  be  blue  instead  of  brown,  or 
brown  instead  of  gray,  I  should  be  dis- 
appointed. Also,  if  you  had  a  certain 
kind  of  mouth  I  should  be  quite  unable 
to  like  you.  Observe  how  gracefully 
I  ignore  the  possibility  of  your  being 
influenced  by  such  trifles.  Your  great 
mind  being  sternly  bent  on  molecules, 
you  no  doubt  would  not  even  notice 
whether  I  am  tall  or  short,  bony  or 
baggy!  But  you  will  think  this  very 
foolish  babbling,  after  the  profundity  of 
my  beginnings. 

About  your  story.  I  agree  with  you 
in  pitying  her.  In  such  cases  I  am  al- 
ways inclined  to  pity  the  woman.  And 
this  woman  has  put  everything  into  the 
scale  against  the  love  of  a  man  years 
younger  than  she,  as  well  as  having 

67 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

taken  from  him,  at  least  for  a  time, 
the  companionship  of  other  men  and 
women,  his  club,  all  his  menus  plat- 
sirs. 

As  a  merciful  Providence  in  the 
mystery  of  his  wisdom  has  created  man 
polygamous,  woman  monogamous  (by 
instinct,  which  is,  after  all,  what  counts), 
every  man,  unless  his  love  for  a  woman 
is  backed  and  braced  by  a  lot  of  other 
things,  the  respect  of  his  kind,  amuse- 
ment, occupation,  etc.,  is  bound  to  tire,, 
of  her  after  a  time.  -  &4  UM^J 

Even  backed  by  these  things,  how 
many  a  perfectly  sincere  love  wanes 
with  time! 

Poor  soul!  I  hope  her  husband  will 
divorce  her  soon,  and  at  least  give  her 
the  legal  possession  of  the  lisp  and  the 
opals,  before  his  love  —  under  the  re- 
moval of  the  host  of  gracious  "  shad- 
68 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ows  "  chased  away  by  the  stern  sun  of 
solitude  —  has  begun  its  absolutely  in- 
evitable waning. 

There  is  my  opinion;  take  it  for 
what  it's  worth. 

I  have  just  been  out  for  a  walk 
through  softly  melting  snow,  on  which 
all  shadows  are  blue,  into  the  beech- 
wood.  The  snow  was  so  deep  that  I 
could  not  go  far,  but  I  stood  under  a 
big,  knobby  old  fellow  near  the  edge, 
and  looked  up  the  slope,  up  which  the 
blue  shadows  slanted. 

A  wood  in  winter  is  very  beautiful. 
The  white  quiet  was  not  yet  broken  by 
the  thaw,  though  the  branches  gleamed 
black  in  the  moist  air;  all  little  twigs 
seemed  sketched  in  ink  against  the 
snow.  The  sun  behind  me  threw  a  red 
glow  for  a  second  over  it  all,  edging 

69 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

the  shriveled  leaves  clinging  here  and 
there,  with  fire. 

The  snow  will  soon  be  gone,  leaving 
the  ground  an  untidy  mass  of  slippery 
red  soil,  and  I  will  put  on  rubber  boots, 
take  a  stick,  and  pay  a  round  of  visits 
on  the  slope.  The  winter  has  been 
hard,  and  some  of  my  friends  will  have 
suffered. 

There  is  a  pastel  portrait  hanging  op- 
posite me  as  I  write,  and  I  think  you 
must  be  like  it.  I  don't  mean  as  to 
features,  but  in  a  certain  air  of  quiet 
determination  and  knowing  what  you 
are  about. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  other 
day,  in  a  certain  old  university  town, 
I  was  taken  to  see  a  chemical  labora- 
tory. It  made  me  think  of  you,  dear 
Pessimist,  and  I  admit  that  the  retorts 
and  crucibles  have  a  certain  charm,  to 
70 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

say  nothing  of  all  the  other  things, 
nameless  to  me. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  have  the  books. 
Don't  forget  to  send  them. 

Since  my  walk,  by  the  way,  I  am 
less  fearful  for  the  poor  woman  with 
the  blackened  eyebrows.  Possibly  she 
has  great  charm,  and  possibly  he  is  too 
completely  under  her  sway  to  tire  of 
her.  I  hope  so,  and  I  have  seen  it, 
only  in  my  case  the  woman  was  greatly 
the  social  superior  of  the  man.  At  all 
events,  they  interest  me,  and  she  was 
certainly  better  and  more  courageous  in 
running  off  with  him  than  she  would 
have  been  in  doing  what  nine  women 
out  of  ten  —  over  here,  at  least  —  would 
have  done. 

It  is  late;  I  must  dress  for  dinner. 
Shall  I  wear  yellow  or  pink  ? 

Good-night,  amigo  de  mi  alma. 


LETTER  XVIII 

March  16 

THANK  you.  I  can  write  you  only  a 
few  words,  dear  lady,  as  I  have  had 
pneumonia,  and  am  still  almost  help- 
less. Your  letter  was  given  me  to-day, 
and  Heaven  knows  how  often  I  have 
re-read  it.  I  suppose  that  by  this  time 
you  are  busy  hunting  the  first  violets? 
Send  me  one. 

It  is  an  infernal  thing  to  be  ill;  a 
worse  thing  to  be  ill  and  alone.  It  is 
just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  I  can't  write, 
for  I  am  in  a  state  approaching  the 
tearful. 

If  I  had  married  the  girl  whom  I  once 
loved,  my  eldest  child  might  have  been 
nineteen,  and,  if  a  girl,  sitting  there  in 
72 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

the  big  chair  with  the  firelight  on  her 
hair.  I  am  growing  old;  I  drivel.  If 
I  were  even  ten  years  younger  I  should 
want  you  awfully.  It  is  hard  to  feel 
that  one  is  too  old  for  falling  in  love 
with  the  most  charming  woman  in  the 
world,  —  and  you  are  she,  of  that  I  am 
sure. 

Have  you  dimples,  and  blue  veins  in 
your  temples?  My  nurse  has  come, 
and  is  scolding  me  for  disobeying  her. 
She  has  no  dimples;  she  has  an  im- 
perial instead. 

Write  me  soon,  and  forgive  all  this 
idiocy.  I  am  to  have  a  poached  egg. 
If  it  is  slippery,  I  won't  eat  it.  Would 


you? 


C.  R.  S. 


73 


LETTER  XIX 

March  30 

POOR  dear!  I  am  so  sorry  that  you 
have  been  ill.  Are  you  better  now? 
Here  is  the  violet,  sweet  wee  thing! 
bringing  a  most  cordial  and  sincere 
greeting  from  me  to  you. 

It  is  awful  to  be  ill,  and  it  is  worse 
to  be  ill  and  alone.  A  nurse  with  an 
imperial  would  hardly  improve  matters, 
I  suppose,  though,  all  things  considered, 
perhaps  the  imperial  was  a  blessing  in 
disguise. 

You  were,  despite  your  potential 
daughter  of  nineteen,  in  a  dangerous 
state  of  mind  when  you  wrote  that  note, 
Mr.  Pessimist!  But  now,  no  doubt, 
you  are  back  at  work,  at  least  no 
74 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

longer  shut  in  your  room,  and  all  is 
well. 

This  last  month  has  been  an  anxious 
one  for  me.  My  poor  Annette,  fired 
with  ambition  as  to  window-cleaning, 
fell  off  a  chest  of  drawers  and  broke 
her  leg,  a  few  days  after  I  wrote  you. 
She  was  in  Paris;  I — far  from  there. 
She  is  the  embodiment  of  health  as  a 
rule,  but  she  is  over  sixty,  and  to  make 
matters  worse,  fell  to  fretting  for  her 
husband,  a  creature  charming  in  his 
way,  but  with  whom  she  had  never  been 
able  to  live  in  peace,  and  whom  she  left 
twenty  years  ago  and  more. 

Her  letters  to  me  have  been  very 
touching.  Years  ago  they  had  a  child, 
a  poor  little  thing  born  lame,  and  it 
seems  that  Pere  Bonnet's  one  good  qual- 
ity, beyond  great  charm  of  manner,  and 
a  tenor  voice  fit  for  the  heavenly  choir, 

75 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

was  his  utter  devotion  to  Le  Mioche. 
I  know  no  other  name  for  him.  Le 
Mioche  lived  only  four  years,  but  those 
four  years,  looked  back  upon  through 
the  kindly  mist  of  something  over  thirty, 
have  grown  to  be  of  paramount  impor- 
tance to  the  poor  old  woman.  Her 
man,  she  wrote  me,  used  to  carry  Le 
Mioche  in  a  sort  of  hammock  on  his 
back,  and  then,  while  he  worked,  Le 
Mioche  sat  in  a  heap  of  sawdust  covered 
with  her  man's  coat,  and  looked  on. 
Le  pere  Bonnet  was  working  in  a  lum- 
ber camp  at  that  time,  —  indeed,  they 
lived  in  a  log  hut  built  by  his  own  hands. 
Le  Mioche  had  a  precocious  fondness 
for  mushrooms,  and  many  times  "  mon 
homme "  brought  a  hatful  home  with 
him,  and  tenderly  fed  them  to  the  poor 
child  —  raw !  The  grave  is  somewhere 
there  in  the  Maine  woods,  and  several 
76 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

times,  of  late,  Annette  has  expressed  to 
me  her  longing  to  visit  it  once  more 
with  the  recreant  Bonnet,  who,  "  after 
all,"  was  the  father  of  Le  Mioche. 

It  would  be  a  pitiful  pilgrimage, 
would  it  not?  She  was  a  high-spirited, 
handsome  woman,  as  I  first  remember 
her.  Now  she  is  old  and  bent,  this 
very  longing  for  the  husband  she  hated 
in  her  youth  being  a  pathetic  indica- 
tion of  her  weakness.  He,  I  gather, 
for  I  remember  him  very  faintly,  was  a 
handsome,  light-hearted  creature  who 
simply  could  n't  understand  her  mental 
attitudes,  and  whom  her  ideas  of  faith- 
fulness and  honor  bored  to  death. 
Think  of  them  meeting,  drawn  together 
over  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche ! 

I  suspect  her  of  having  written  to 
him,  poor  soul!  Does  this  bore  you? 
I  hope  not,  for  it  really  is  "  being 

77 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

friends,"  as  children  say.  My  mind  is 
full  of  Annette  and  her  troubles,  so  I 
tell  you  of  them.  It  is  at  least  a  sug- 
gestive story  enough.  I  hope  your 
friend  who  ran  away  with  the  man  with 
the  opals  had  no  Mioche ! 

To-morrow  I  go  south  for  a  yachting 
trip.  We  teave  Italy  about  April  15, 
and  I  don't  know  where  we  shall  go, 
so  do  not  hurry  about  writing,  though 
I  am  always  glad  to  have  your  letters. 

Has  not  your  book  come  out? 

I  will  write  you  some  time  from  the 
yacht,  and  in  the  mean  time,  behuf  dick 
Gott. 

You  signed  your  initials  to  your  note, 
do  you  remember? 


LETTER  XX 

ON  BOARD  THE  YACHT  X ,  May  3 

JUST  five  minutes  in  which  to  beg  a 
great  favor  of  you.  Le  pere  Bonnet 
needs  money,  and  I  cannot  get  ashore. 
Will  you  send  him  $200  at  once,  with 
the  inclosed  note? 

We  shall  be  in  England  next  week 
en  route  for  home,  and  I  will  of  course 
send  you  the  money  at  once.  I  know 
that  this  is  very  dreadful,  but  I  have  no 
one  in  America  to  do  it  for  me,  and 
Annette  writes,  urging  me  to  send  it  at 
once,  as  a  miracle  has  come  to  pass, 
and  he  wishes  to  go  to  France  to  see 
her. 

You  see,  I  trust  you,  in  giving  you 
the  address  of  this  man  who  would  tell 

79 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

you  all  about  me.  I  will  send  you  the 
money  in  English  banknotes,  registered, 
care  Harper  Brothers. 

Thanking  you  a  thousand  times  in 
advance,  believe  me  to  be  sincerely 
your  friend, 

W.  Z. 


80 


LETTER    XXI 

May  20,  THE  LABORATORY 

THANK  you  for  trusting  me.  Pere 
Bonnet  has  his  money,  and  as  I  sent  no 
address  he  could  not  write  to  acknow- 
ledge it,  and  I  know  no  more  of  you, 
dear  Lady  of  the  Beeches,  than  I  did 
before.  That  is  —  do  I  not?  Am  I  not 
learning  to  know  so  much  that  it  is 
more  than  just  as  well  that  I  know  no 
more?  Thank  you  for  signing  the 
initials  of  your  name,  and  thank  you 
again  for  trusting  me. 

I  am  tormented  by  an  insane  desire 
to  tell  you  my  name,  but  I  dare  not. 
I  know  you  would  snub  me,  and  pos- 


81 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

sibly  you  might  never  write  me  again. 
So  good-by.  I  have  been  writing  to 
you  for  hours  with  this  result. 

C.  R.  S. 


82 


LETTER  XXII 

June  4,  AMONG  THE  BEECHES 

I  AM  glad  you  did  not  tell  me  who  you 
are,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  But  I 
understand  your  letter  only  too  well. 
You  are  lonely,  poor  man  of  science! 
you  long  for  a  friend,  and  because  you 
do  not  know  me,  you  fancy  I  might  be 
that  friend.  I  You  are  in  that  state  of 
mind  —  or  is  n't  it  in  reality  a  state  of 
heart  ?  —  when  a  man  longs  for  a  wo- 
man, a  woman  for  a  man  friend. 

I  too  have  struggled  with  the  feel- 
ing that  it  is  foolish  to  keep  you  at  such 
a  distance,  that  we  would  each  of  us  be 
happier  for  knowing  the  other,  but  I 
am  conscious  all  the  time  that  the  feel- 
ing is  a  weakness.  I  like  you,  I  like 

83 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

•V '  •  '• 

V  your  letters;  the  eyes  of  the  pastel  in 

the  tower-room  have  grown  to  be  your 
eyes,  and  I  like  and  trust  them.  But  if 
I  know  who  you  are,  would  not  half  the 

-^    charm  be  gone? 

Have   you   never,   before   going    to 

<*"  some  strange  place,  made  for  yourself 
a  picture  of  that  place,  and  then,  arriv- 
ing, been  almost  ludicrously  disap- 
pointed because  the  house  was  on  the 

s     wrong  side  of  the  road,  or  the  door  not 

where  you  had  built  it  in  your  imagina- 

;   tion  ?    |The  me  you  have  invented  is  the 


friend  you  want  and  need.     The  me  \ 

JT^_ 

am  is  a  different  woman,  the  result  of  a 
host  of  things  in  which  you  have  had 
no  hand,  i  And  I  confess  that  the  you  I 
have  invented  is  all  that  I  want,  and  I 
should  be  disappointed  in  a  thousand 
ways  if  we  should  ever  meet. 

No,  let  us  leave  things  as  they  are, 
84 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

dear  Pessimist.  I  have  been  having  a 
bad  time  of  late:  outside  things  have 
gone  wrong;  but  what  is  worse,  I  am 
upset  and  jarred  mentally.  Even  my 
trees  cannot  soothe  me  into  my  usual 
calm. 

These  lovely  May  days  nearly  break 
my  heart,  for  some  reason;  the  birds' 
singing  brings  tears  to  my  silly  eyes;  I 
feel  the  terror  of  growing  old.  Time 
is  going,  —  "the  bird  of  Time  is  on  the 
wing,"  —  and  I  am  doing  nothing.  I 
am  doing  no  one  any  good,  myself  least 
of  all.  I  am  not  even  enjoying  life. 
But  this  is  what  you  call  "drivel,"  — 
forgive  it,  and  set  it  down  to  a  touch  of 
spring  fever! 

Thanks  for  the  book,  which  I  am 
glad  to  have,  though  I  have  not  yet 
even  opened  it. 

Old  Annette  expects  her  husband  in 

85 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

July.  She  is  much  excited,  in  a  quaint, 
shy  way,  and  leaves  me  in  a  few  days 
to  go  back  to  Paris.  Here  she  comes 
with  a  frightful  concoction  of  herbs  for 
me  to  drink.  She  is  very  wise,  and  she 
thinks  the  spring  air  has  got  into  my 
blood. 

Perhaps  it  has ! 

Good-by,  kindliest  of  Pessimists. 
Write  me  soon,  and  tell  me  I  am  a 
goose. 

W. 


LETTER  XXIII 

June  15,  BAR  HARBOUR 

DEAR  W., —  Poor  child,  poor  child!  so 
you  have  it,  too.  Spring  fever  is  what 
the  old  wives  in  Yankeeland  call  it,  did 
you  know?  In  children  it  may  come 
from  the  liver,  iln  grown  people  it 
comes  from  the  memory.!  (The  mem- 
ory of  happy  days  is  bad  enough,  but 
far  worse  is  the  memory  of  the  happy 
days  one  never  had.f 

But  you  are  too  young  to  know  this. 
You  should  not  know  it,  —  should  not, 
and  yet  you  do  ;  and  I  have  a  feeling 
that  your  pain  comes,  as  does  mine, 
from  the  memory  of  those  happy  days 
never  had.  Old  Annette  gave  you  all 
the  mothering  you  ever  knew.  My 

87 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

grandmother  gave  me  mine,  and  to  this 
day  I  envy  children  with  a  silly,  illo- 
gical, loving  little  mother  who  spoils 
them  and  cuddles  them  in  her  soft  arms. 
Do  you  ?  Have  you  children  of  your 
own  ? 

You  are  right,  we  must  not  meet;  but 
we  must  be  friends,  we  must  trust  each 
other.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  me  ;  I  swear 
that  if  by  moving  my  hand  I  could  know 
all  about  you,  I  would  not  do  it  with- 
out your  permission.  There  is  not  one 
person  in  the  world  who  would  not 
gasp  with  astonishment  could  he  see 
this  letter,  but  I  mean  it  all.  I  am 
lonely.  I  do  sometimes  long,  with  a 
keenness  that  hurts,  for  a  sympathetic 
woman  friend  with  whom  to  talk,  "  the 
heart  in  the  hand,"  as  Italians  say  ;  and 
yet  I  am  not  in  the  least  a  sentimental, 
or  even  a  woman's  man.  Once,  years 
88 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE   BEECHES 

ago,  when  I  was  still  in  college,  I  fell 
in  love  with  a  pretty  girl,  and  asked  her 
to  marry  me.  She  refused,  in  the  kind- 
est way  in  the  world,  because  I  had  no 
money,  and  she  only  a  little  ;  beyond 
this  I  have  had  no  romances.  Is  n't  it 
rather  pitiful,  the  baldness  of  such  a 
life  ?  I  could  wish  sometimes  that  I 
were  the  victim  of  a  great  tragedy.  It 
would  be  something  to  remember,  some- 
thing for  which  to  deserve  the  self-pity 
that  wells  up  to  my  very  eyes  some- 
times. 

Are  you  laughing  at  me?  Is  Our 
Lady  of  the  Beeches  in  one  of  her 
mocking  moods  ?  If  so,  so  be  it.  We 
are  friends,  and  surely  friends  can  bear 
a  bit  of  chaff. 

If  you  have  not  yet  read  the  book, 
do  not,  I  beg  of  you.  It  is  sincerely 
and  honestly  written,  but  it  is  the  work 

89 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

of  a  materialist,  and,  I  now  see,  no 
reading  for  a  young  woman  of  your 
character. 

Why  I  was  sent  into  the  world  with 
this  taste  and  talent  for  iconoclastics, 
that  which  made  me  must  know.  I  am 
counted  a  wise  man,  I  have  a  string 
of  letters  after  my  name,  I  have  made 
two  discoveries  considered  important; 
but,  after  all,  what  good  has  it  done 
me  ? 

And  such  reading  as  you  could  do  on 
my  lines,  dear  lady,  at  best  superficial 
and  imperfectly  understood,  can  do  you 
only  harm.  May  I  know  whether  you 
believe  in  a  God  ?  If  you  do,  as  I  hope, 
read  nothing  to  shake  that  belief. 

The  Pessimist  as  a  preacher  ! 

I  have  been  in  this  delightful  place 
for  ten  days,  and  shall  stay  all  summer, 
boating,  riding,  and  loafing. 
90 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

The  air,  a  rare  combination  of  sea 
and  mountain,  is  delicious,  the  colors 
equal  to  those  of  Italy,  and  the  house 
where  I  am  stopping  almost  a  bache- 
lor's hall,  though  my  friend  is  married. 
His  wife  plays  golf  all  day,  and  when 
the  season  is  in  full  swing  will  dance 
all  night,  so  we  here  are  subject  to  but 
little  control. 

I  went  to  a  dinner  last  night,  at 
which  the  conversation  turned,  strangely 
enough,  on  American  women  who  have 
married  foreigners.  Nearly  every  one 
present  knew  of  some  such  case,  while 
of  course  several  were  well  known  to 
us  all.  I  wondered  whether  any  of  the 
talkers  knew  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 

My  silence  drawing  attention  to  me, 
one  man  asked,  laughing  :  — 

"And  you,  S ,  don't  you  know 

any  such  fair  deserter  ?  " 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Almost  involuntarily  I  answered, 
"  Yes,  the  most  charming  woman  I 
ever  knew  married  in  Europe."  And 
then  the  charming  women  present  be- 
sieged me  with  questions,  which  I  did 
not  answer. 

I  noticed,  among  all  the  examples  of 
international  marriages  cited,  that  not 
one  was  said  to  be  conspicuously  happy. 
I  wonder  why  women  will  not  learn 
that  to  cut  themselves  off  from  all  early 
associations,  after  the  age  for  making 
close  friends,  is  a  dangerous  thing. 
Women  need  friends,  acquaintances 
will  not  do  ;  and  a  girl  brought  up  in 
one  country  can  never  —  love  her  hus- 
band as  she  may  —  learn  to  be  of  an- 
other country. 

But   I   am   lecturing.     Forgive   me, 
you  who  know  from  experience  whether 
I  am  right  or  wrong. 
92 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Write  me  soon  again.  Send  your 
letter  to  Box  71,  Bar  Harbour,  Maine. 
Faithfully  your  friend, 

C.  R.  S. 


93 


LETTER   XXIV 

June  27,  LONDON 

YESTERDAY  I  had  a  tremendous  shock. 
A  man  whom  I  have  known  for  years, 
and  liked,  a  friend  of  my  husband,  I  had 
thought  a  friend  of  mine,  asked  me  to 
go  away  with  him. 

I  have  never  flirted  with  him,  I  knew 
that  he  was  more  or  less  in  love  with 
me,  but  I  had  thought  that  he  was  a 
gentleman.  He  has  been  mixed  up  in 
my  life  a  great  deal  of  late,  and  once 
or  twice  has  shown  me  a  kind  of  tacit 
sympathy  that  I  could  not  refuse.  That 
is  all.  Yesterday  he  dared,  in  perfectly 
cold  blood,  to  propose  to  me  to  leave 
my  husband  for  him. 
94 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

He  began  by  telling  me  I  had  a  great 
deal  of  self-control,  and  you  will  see 
how  innocent  I  was  when  I  tell  you  I 
did  not  know  what  he  meant.  Then  he 
asked  me  point-blank  whether  I  had  not 
known  that  he  loved  me. 

I  answered  honestly  that  I  had  known 
it,  and  that  I  was  very  grateful  to  him 
for  never  letting  his  feelings  become  an 
obstacle  to  our  pleasant  friendship. 

He  informed  me  thereupon  that  when 
a  man  loves  a  woman  he  never  is  mis- 
taken about  her  feeling  for  him,  that  he 
knew  I  loved  him,  and  that  the  time  had 
come  when  neither  of  us  could  stand 
the  strain  of  present  circumstances  any 
longer. 

His  strength  of  conviction  was  such 
that  I  was  utterly  aghast  for  a  minute, 
and  then,  the  funny  side  of  it  suddenly 
appearing  to  me,  I  burst  into  what  he 

95 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

called  "  a  roar "  of  laughter.  It  was 
all  so  absurd. 

When  at  last  he  stopped  talking,  I 
told  him  very  gently  that  he  was  utterly 
wrong,  that  I  was  not  in  the  least  in 
love  with  him,  and  that  I  must  beg  of 
him  not  to  force  me  to  see  him  again 
until  he  had  come  to  his  senses.  He 
left  me  without  a  word,  and  I  have 
been  growing  angrier  ever  since. 

There  must  be  a  strain  of  vulgarity 
in  me,  for  I  should  like  at  this  moment 
nothing  better  than  to  box  his  ears. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  Pessimist,  that  I  am 
sure  the  wretch  is -somewhere  cursing 
my  self-control. 

The  belief  that  I  care  for  him  ap- 
pears to  be  too  deep-rooted  to  be  jerked 
out  so  suddenly,  and  it  seems  that  sev- 
eral of  my  innocent  words  and  acts  have 
been  construed  into  a  tacit  acceptance 
96 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

of  his  passion.  He  called  it  his  pas- 
sion ! 

My  unfortunate  burst  of  laughter  he 
no  doubt  took  on  consideration  as  the 
result  of  hysterical  joy,  and  here  I  am, 
angry  as  I  have  been  but  a  few  times  in 
my  life,  and  —  perfectly  helpless.  How 
can  I  make  the  creature  believe  that  I 
never  gave  him  a  thought  of  that  kind 
—  that  I  looked  on  him  as  a  good  sort, 
not  too  clever,  and  rather  attractively 
faithful  to  his  mute  adoration  of  my 
charming  self !  However  — 

So  you  are  at  dear  old  Bar  Harbor! 
Why  spell  it  with  a  "  u  "  ?  Anything  so 
essentially,  deliciously  American  surely 
ought  to  be  writ  in  the  American  way. 
I  have  been  there,  and  love  it 

When  I  was  very  young  I  was  in 
love  there,  and  that  was  enchanting. 

The  object  of  my  love  was  a  hand- 

97 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

some  youth  with  blue  eyes,  and,  oh 
rapture !  a  budding  mustache.  He  had 
a  great  deal  of  money,  and  his  atten- 
tions, although  I  was  in  reality  too 
young  to  be  the  recipient  of  such 
things,  were  not  discouraged  by  my 
only  relative,  a  cousin,  and  for  a  time 
all  went  well,  and  we  were  engaged, 
subject  to  certain  restrictions. 

The  following  winter  I  had  the  mea- 
sles and  was  taken  South  to  recuperate. 
My  young  body,  alas,  recuperated  no 
sooner  than  did  my  young  heart,  and 
poor  Annette's  was  the  task  of  seeing 
him  when  he  came  to  see  me  in  the 
early  spring.  Vanity  notwithstanding, 
I  am  compelled  to  admit  that  he  was 
not  crushed  by  the  blow,  and  a  few 
years  ago  I  met  him  at  Venice  with  his 
wife,  a  very  pretty  girl  with  a  curl  in 
the  middle  of  her  forehead. 
98 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Does  one  still  go  to  Duck  Brook  and 
Bubble  Pond?  Dear  Bar  Harbor,  how 
blue  the  air  is  there,  and  how  strong 
the  salt  smell ! 

No,  I  have  no  children;  and  will  you 
think  me  very  awful  for  being  glad  I 
have  not? 

Your  moralizing  on  international 
marriages  amuses  me.  How  do  you 
know,  dear  Pessimist  ?  for  you  do  know 
a  great  deal.  You  are  not  entirely 
right,  however.  Now  the  reason,  I 
think,  that  such  marriages  are  apt  to  be 
unhappy  is  that  they  are  nine  times  out 
ten  merely  mariages  de  convenance. 
A  very  rich  girl  marries  a  more  or  less 
needy  nobleman  (and  say  what  one 
will,  European  men  as  a  whole  greatly 
prefer  marrying  women  of  their  own 
race) ;  she  lives  with  him  the  life  he  is 
used  to  and  likes,  and  takes  up  his  inter- 

99 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ests.  If  they  are  in  love  with  each  other 
in  such  a  way  that  it  lasts,  of  course 
all  is  well;  but  usually  at  least  one  of 
them  tires,  and  then  no  old  associations, 
no  common  relations  and  friends  bind- 
ing them  together,  the  woman,  do  what 
she  will,  compares  the  two  countries, 
and  grows  homesick.  It  is  a  dangerous 
experiment,  as  you  say,  though  there 
are  some  exceptions. 

The  happiest  people  I  know  in  the 
world  are  an  American  girl  and  her 
Dutch  husband.  The  girl  was  not  rich, 
the  man  had  but  little  money,  and  yet 
they  are  perfectly  happy;  the  necessary 
bond  in  this  case  being  a  passion  for 
tulips.  The  girl  was  always  crazy  about 
flowers,  and  the  man  is  one  of  the  most 
successful  amateur  "  tulipists  "  in  Hol- 
land. He  directed  her  love  for  flowers 
in  general  to  tulips  in  particular,  and 
100 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

there  they  live  among  acres  of  garden, 
like  an  unmolested  Adam  and  Eve. 

So  you  have  never  married.  I  thought 
you  had  not,  even  before  the  letter  after 
your  illness.  I  have  been  married  for 
some  years.  My  husband  is  very  good 
to  me;  I  can't  imagine  a  better  hus- 
band, in  many  ways. 

I  tell  you  this  that  you  may  imagine 
me  no  Griselda,  after  my  occasional 
wails.  The  unhappiness  I  have,  amigo, 
comes  from  within.  Do  not  pity  me 
too  much. 

To-day,  or  rather  this  evening,  I  am 
savage  with  the  whole  world,  most  of 
all  with  myself  for  paying  so  little  heed 
to  the  moods  and  thoughts  of  what  I 
considered  a  harmless  little  man.  I 
should  like  to  fly  off  to  a  wilderness  and 
revert  to  a  savage  life.  I  wish  my  only 
thought  was  to  have  enough  to  eat.  I 

101 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

wish  I  had  a  nice  comforting  vice,  such 
as  smoking,  or  bridge.  Nothing  keeps 
a  woman  out  of  mischief  so  well  as  a 
pet  vice. 

I  have  not  read  the  book,  but  I  think 
you  had  better  let  me.  The  God  I 
believe  in  is  the  God  of  no  creed,  and 
of  infinite  mercy.  I  do  not  fear  Him. 
Your  book  would  not  shake  me.  No 
book  in  the  world  could,  though  I  am 
not  at  all  pious. 

Annette  had  a  mass  read  to-day,  in 
the  I  fear  vain  hope  of  receiving  a  let- 
ter from  her  husband,  who  has  not  once 
written  since  you  sent  him  the  money. 
Poor  old  woman! 

I  trust  the  money  reached  you  safely 
through  the  Harpers  ? 

Good-by.  I  like  the  thought  that 
you  are  my  friend.  God  bless  you. 

W. 

102 


I 


"  '  LA  vie  est  breve,  un  peu  d'espoir,' ': 
Leduc  sang  as  he  came  slowly  up  the 
slope,  the  letter  in  his  hand:  " '  Un  peu 
de  reve,  et  puis  bonsoir! ' 

Saxe  rolled  over,  brushing  the  pine 
needles  from  his  coat.  "Hurry  up!" 
he  called. 

Leduc's  vivid  blue  eyes  twinkled 
under  their  wrinkled  lids  as  he  put  the 
letter  into  Saxe's  outstretched  hand. 

"  M'sieu  is  pretty  old  to  be  so  excited 
by  a  letter  from  a  woman.  Pretty 
old!" 

"Old?  I?  I  am  twenty-five  this 
evening  in  feelings  and  in  appetite. 
Did  you  get  the  coffee  ? " 

Leduc  grunted.  "  Yes  an'  the  dev- 

103 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

iled  ham,  an'  the  whiskey.  Leduc  tired. 
Leduc  must  sleep  two-three  minutes, 
—  then  he  make  the  fire." 

Throwing  himself  face  downward  on 
the  fragrant  earth,  he  was  silent. 

Saxe  watched  him,  an  amused  smile 
in  his  eyes. 

"  The  facile  sleep  of  the  man  of  rudi- 
mentary conscience  and  a  good  diges- 
tion. The  man  is  to  be  envied,  —  by 
another  than  me,  however." 

The  letter  expected  for  days  lay  on 
Saxe's  updrawn  knees:  a  long,  slim 
white  envelope,  addressed  in  a  very 
clear,  unadorned  handwriting,  "  To  the 
Author  of  The  Pessimist's  Breviary," 
and  re-addressed  by  a  clerk  in  his  pub- 
lisher's office.  He  turned  it  over;  the 
blue  seal  was  small  and  perfect. 

"  When  I  held  out  my  hand  to  take 
it,"  the  man  mused,  "it  trembled.  I 
104 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

both  felt  and  saw  it  tremble.  Once 
more,  Richard  Saxe,  I  ask  you,  on  your 
honor,  are  you  in  love  with  her?" 

A  snore  from  Leduc  being  the  only 
answer  to  his  question,  he  took  a  knife 
from  his  pocket  and  carefully  cut  the 
letter  open. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  the  ochre  seams  in  the  big  pines 
about  him  were  crimson  in  the  sunlight. 
The  ground,  modulating  gently  to  a  lit- 
tle blue  lake,  was  bare  of  grass,  warm 
with  rich  tints  of  brown,  and  swept  with 
swift  shadows  as  the  wind  stirred  the 
branches  high  above.  To  the  left  stood 
a  small  cabin,  flanked  by  a  dingy  tent. 

Saxe  read  his  letter  slowly,  often  go- 
ing back  and  re-studying  a  phrase,  his 
expression  changing  curiously  in  his 
perfect  freedom  from  observation.  His 
face  was  that  of  a  man  close  on  middle 

105 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

age,  with  a  handsome  nose  and  chin, 
small  brilliant  eyes  that  shone  behind 
rimless  glasses,  a  broad,  well-modeled 
brow  shadowed  by  a  lock  of  stiff  brown 
hair,  and  a  heavy,  short-cut  mustache 
streaked  with  gray.  His  muscular 
throat,  bared  by  a  low-collared  flannel 
shirt,  lent  him  a  youthful  air  that  he 
would  have  lacked  in  more  civilized 
clothes,  and  his  clever-looking  hands, 
though  brown,  were  distinctly  the  hands 
of  a  student.  Once  he  laid  down  the 
letter,  and  taking  off  his  eyeglasses 
with  a  little  downward  swoop  of  three 
fingers,  opened  and  closed  his  eyes  sev- 
eral times  in  rapid  succession,  in  a  way 
evidently  characteristic,  before  putting 
them  on  again. 

"  Beast !  "  he   said  aloud   once,  and 
then  a  quick   smile  at  himself  flashed 
two  dimples  in  his  cheeks. 
1 06 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

At  last  Leduc  grunted,  rolled  over, 
and  awoke.  "  Bien,  bien,  bien,  bien," 
he  muttered,  yawning.  "  I  dream 
M'sieu  have  the  fire  all  built  for  poor 
old  Leduc  ! " 

"  Leduc  had  better  hurry  and  build 
the  fire  for  poor  old  M'sieu.  The  trout 
is  cleaned,  and  in  the  pail  there.  I  '11 
attend  to  the  coffee  while  you  fry 
him." 

Leduc  paused,  looking  down  at  him 
shrewdly.  "  De  bonnes  nouvelles, 
M'sieu?" 

"Yes.  Very  good.  More  than  — 
Get  to  work,  man." 

"  When  I  was  the  age  of  M'sieu, 
there  was  a  little  English  girl  in  Ban- 
gor,  —  pretty  to  eat,  I  tell  you.  My 
God,  how  I  love  that  girl,  —  when  I 
was  the  age  of  M'sieu  !  " 

"  Why  did  n't  you  marry  her  ? " 

107 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

asked  Saxe,  rising  too,  and  walking  the 
old  man  toward  the  cabin. 

"  Oh,  —  she  was  married,  —  and  me, 
too.  Telle  est  la  vie.  Rotten  old 
world  ! " 

"  Rotten  old  Leduc !  I  forgot  you 
were  a  Frenchman.  Unmarried  French- 
men never  fall  in  love  with  girls,  do 
they  ?  " 

Leduc  scrutinized  his  innocent  face 
sharply,  and  then,  satisfied  of  his  good 
faith,  "  No,  we  marries  them,  but  we 
do  not  love  them.  Oh  no.  I  too  have 
passed  that  way.  I  too  married  a  girl. 
La,  la,  —  where  is  that  trout  ?  " 

He  disappeared  behind  the  cabin, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  Saxe  heard  him 
burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  ex- 
claim :  "  Holy  Mother  of  God,  he  has 
cut  off  its  head !  " 

Saxe  apologized.     He  had  cut  the 
1 08 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

trout's  head  off,  half  through  ignorance, 
half  through  absent-mindedness,  and 
felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  was  feeling  very  happy,  moreover, 
and  quite  willing  to  apologize  to  nearly 
any  one  for  nearly  anything. 

As  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  whiskey, 
he  smiled  at  it  absently  and  said  to 
Leduc :  "  Nothing  like  a  ( nice  comfort- 
ing vice,'  is  there  ?  " 

"Vice?  M'sieu!  But,  yes,  M'sieu 
is  right,  only  I  should  choose  not  whis- 
key. Whiskey  make  a  brute  of  a  man 
—  a  pig." 

u  I  may  say  without  vanity  that  nei- 
ther would  it  be  my  choice.  By  Jove, 
smell  that  coffee! " 

The  fire,  burnt  down  to  a  steady 
glow,  cast  a  faint  circle  of  beautiful 
light  around  the  two  men  sitting  by  it. 
The  fish,  nailed  to  a  strip  of  board,  was 

109 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

half  cooked ;  the  fragrance  of  the  coffee 
mingled  with  the  pine  smell  as  a  cone 
crackled  from  time  to  time,  sending  a 
spray  of  sparks  into  the  closing-in  dark- 
ness. An  owl  hooted.  Saxe  sat  with 
his  arms  clasped  about  his  knees,  his 
eyeglasses  glinting  in  the  firelight,  his 
forehead  white  under  the  lock  of  hair. 
Leduc,  a  picturesque  enough  figure, 
knelt  close  in  the  glow,  shifting  the 
board  to  which  the  decapitated  trout, 
ruined,  according  to  him,  for  broiling, 
was  nailed.  Suddenly  the  old  man 
turned,  and  dropped  the  board  full  in 
the  fire. 

"  Can  you  kindly  show  us  the  way 
to  Lake  Silver  Camp  ?  " 

The  speaker  stood  close  by  him,  her 
face  in  the  light,  his  back  to  it.  "  Lake 
Silver?" 


no 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  guide  there, 
Lucien  Bonnet." 

Leduc  rose.     "  Sacristi,  Annette!  " 

Saxe  sat  perfectly  still.  It  all 
seemed  to  have  happened  before.  The 
burning  fish  hissed,  the  coffee  boiled 
over.  Leduc  and  the  little  woman 
stood  staring  at  each  other;  then  she 
put  her  hand  to  her  face  and  burst  into 
tears. 

Saxe  rose  and  left  the  firelight. 

She  was  standing  just  outside  its 
radius,  and  as  he  approached,  a  sudden 
leap  of  the  flame  fed  by  the  pine  board 
flashed  over  her. 

"  Let  us  —  leave  them  alone,  poor 
things,"  he  said. 

The  boat  was  drawn  up  in  the  sand, 
and  they  sat  down  on  it  in  silence. 

At  last  she  said,  "  Is  it  really  he,  — 
Bonnet?" 

in 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Yes.  But  —  I  knew  him  —  they 
all  do  hereabouts  —  as  Leduc.  You 
must  believe  that." 

"  I  must  believe  that  ?  What  do  you 
mean  ? "  she  returned,  struck  by  his 
tone. 

"  I  mean  that  I  did  n't  know.  I  am 
Richard  Saxe,  and  you  are  '  Our  Lady 
of  the  Beeches.' " 

There  was  a  short  silence,  while  the 
water  lapped  the  sand  with  soft  lips, 
and  the  trees  stirred  overhead.  He 
could  barely  see  the  outlines  of  her 
figure,  it  was  so  dark  ;  he  looked  in 
vain  for  the  moon ;  the  mesh  of  waving 
darkness  overhead  was  studded  with 
stars. 

"Hush!"  she  said  suddenly.  "He 
is  crying,  too." 

"  Le  Mioche,"  suggested  Saxe. 

112 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Then  he  smiled  to  himself.  Leduc's 
tears  were  very  near  the  surface. 

"  Where  has  he  been,  do  you  know?  " 
she  asked,  rising  and  facing  him.  "  He 
did  not  come,  and  he  never  wrote." 

"  Yes,  he  has  been  on  a  spree,  —  to 
Bangor." 

"  To  Bangor!  "     She  laughed  softly. 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  of  the  spree,  but 
I  never  suspected  that  you  furnished 
the  money  for  it  —  you  and  I." 

They  both  laughed  again. 

All  at  once  she  turned.  "  What  is 
burning?  It  is  your  supper!  " 

"  It  is  my  supper;  my  only  trout. 
Let  it  burn." 

But  she  sped  up  the  path  ;  he  saw 
her  slight  figure  bend  easily  over  the 
fire,  there  was  a  splash  of  sparks,  an- 
other laugh,  and  she  stood  upright,  her 
face  in  the  light,  beckoning  to  him. 

113 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  It  is  a  charcoal  —  ruined  —  a  wreck. 
And  those  two  old  —  geese  —  have  dis- 
appeared. I  hope  they  have  n't  gone 
altogether  !  " 

"  I  should  n't  mind,"  answered  Saxe 
recklessly.  "  But  they  are  only  in  the 
cabin." 

"  Oh,  you  have  a  cabin  ?  How  dis- 
appointing." 

She  turned,  with  a  little  gesture  of 
disapproval  that  delighted  him. 

"  The  cabin  is  Leduc  —  Bonnet's. 
Behold  my  habitation." 

"  Ah,  a  tent.      That  is  much  better." 

She  sat  down,  leaning  against  the 
very  tree  on  which  he  had  leaned  two 
hours  before  while  reading  her  letter, 
and  took  off  her  hat.  Her  fair  hair 
was  ruffled  into  a  roughness  of  little 
curls  and  tendrils  ;  her  cheeks  were 
flushed.  Saxe  stood  looking  at  her. 
114 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

From  the  cabin  window  came  a  nar- 
row strip  of  yellow  light  and  the  sound 
of  voices. 

"  If  you  don't  put  on  some  wood,  the 
fire  will  be  out  in  two  minutes." 

He  started.  "  Yes,  —  I  will  put  on 
a  log." 

While  he  bent  over  the  fire  an  idea 
struck  him.  "  You  will  have  a  cup  of 
coffee  ?  It  is  good." 

"  Yes.     I  am  hungry." 

She  smiled  on  him  with  the  serenity 
common  in  some  women  when  a  man 
is  on  their  account  beside  himself  with 
embarrassment  —  or  any  other  emotion. 
He  poured  out  the  coffee,  gave  her 
sugar  and  condensed  milk  ;  he  rushed 
to  the  cabin  and  brought  out  a  tin  of 
"  water  crackers  "  and  another  of  deviled 
ham.  A  small  box  —  it  had  held  can- 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

dies  —  did  duty  as  her  table.  He 
watched  her  eat. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  know  how  we 
happened  to  drop  in  on  you  in  this 
way  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  time. 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  know,"  he  answered 
with  an  effort.  "  Your  letter  came  this 
afternoon.  It  was  written  in  England." 

She  dropped  her  cracker,  and  looked 
away.  "  My  letter,"  she  repeated  — 
"which  letter?  I  never" —  A  slow 
flush,  deliciously  visible  in  the  now 
vivid  firelight,  was  creeping  from  her 
high  white  collar  to  the  loose  hair  on 
her  brow. 

Saxe's  courage  came  back  with  a 
rush.  "  Yes,  your  letter.  The  best  of 
them  all.  The  one  about  the  fool  who 
dared  to  make  love  to  you.  To  you ! 
You  ended  by  bidding  God  bless  me." 

She  set  down  her  cup,  and  rose. 
116 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Mr.  Saxe,  —  or  do  you  mean  Dr. 
Saxe  ?  —  that  was  all  very  well,  it  was 
amusing,  and  harmless,  so  long  as  we 
did  n't  know  each  other,  but  now  that 
we  do  —  in  a  way  —  you  must  forget 
all  that.  Although,"  she  went  on,  in 
a  lighter  tone  and  with  a  little  smile, 
"  I  am  off  to-morrow,  so  after  all  it 
does  n't  make  much  difference." 

Saxe  winced. 

"  I  must  forget  all  that.  And  you 
are  off  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  go  back  to  civilization,  leav- 
ing Annette."  As  she  spoke,  the  old 
woman  and  the  old  man  came  out  of 
the  cabin,  and  approached  the  fire. 

"Monsieur  must  excuse  me,"  Leduc 
began  at  once,  in  French,  wiping  his 
eyes.  "  It  is  my  wife.  She  comes  all 
the  way  from  Paris  to  look  me  up." 

Saxe  held  out  his  hand  to  the  old 

117 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

woman.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  that  you  found  us,"  he  said.  "  Sit 
down  and  have  some  supper." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  answered,  in 
far  better  English  than  her  husband 
could  boast.  "  We  drove  over  from 
Windsor." 

"  Mademoiselle  will  permit  the  old 
man  to  kiss  her  hand,  after  all  these 
years?"  Leduc  bowed  in  a  graceful 
way  that  amused  Saxe  in  the  midst  of 
his  bewildered  pain.  Going  away  to- 
morrow ! 

"  It  is  to  visit  the  grave  of  our  little 
child,  sir,  that  I  have  come,"  Annette 
went  on,  in  an  undertone,  to  Saxe. 
"  And  Mademoiselle  has  come  with  me 
because  I  am  too  old  to  go  so  far  alone. 
She  is  an  angel." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"What  will  you?  Only  my  man 
118 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

knows  to  find  the  grave,  and  we  may 
be  gone  two-three  days,  and  who  but 
Mademoiselle  would  stay  all  that  time 
in  the  'otel  at  Windsor !  " 

Saxe  took  off  his  eyeglasses  and 
closed  his  eyes  hard  for  a  minute. 

"  She  is  going  to  stay  at  Windsor  ?  " 

"  Annette,  some  one  must  tell  the 
boy  that  we  are  coming,  or  he  will  drive 
off  and  leave  us." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mademoiselle. 

Annette  turned  down  the  slope,  and 
Saxe,  calling  after  her  to  wait,  thrust 
a  lighted  lantern  into  Leduc's  hand  and 
sent  him  after  her. 

Then  he  turned.  "  You  say  you  are 
off  to-morrow,"  he  said  quickly  ;  "  but 
Annette  tells  me  that  you  were  going 
to  stay  on  at  Windsor  while  she  and  — 
he  —  go  to  see  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche. 
Now  listen.  You  say  I  must  forget  all 

119 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

that,  now  that  we  know  each  other. 
Very  well  ;  I  promise  ;  I  will  neither 
by  word  nor  look,  if  I  can  help  it, 
remind  you  of  anything.  You  will 
have  to  see  me  only  when  you  choose. 
I  will  do  all  that  you  wish.  I  have 
always  done  all  that  you  wish.  Only 
stay.  Let  them  go  to  the  grave  of  Le 
Mioche." 

The  old  pair  were  coming  back,  the 
lantern  danced  among  the  trees,  and 
Leduc's  voice,  piercingly  sweet,  sang 
a  snatch  of  some  old  song:  "  Plaisir 
d'amour  ne  dure  qu'un  instant." 

She  laughed.  "  Not  very  polite  of 
him,  after  her  coming  all  this  way,  is 
it?" 

"  You  will  stay  ? "  he  persisted, 
frowning  over  his  eyeglasses. 

"  If    I    had    known    I   was    to    see 
you  "  —  she  answered,  demurring. 
1 20 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  But  you  did  not.  Nor  I.  And  it 
is  not  fair  to  punish  me  for  what  —  the 
gods  have  chosen  to  bring  about." 

"  Mademoiselle,  a  storm  is  coming 
up,  and  the  boy  refuses  to  wait,"  An- 
nette said,  coming  toward  them. 

The  trees  were  tossing,  the  wind 
moaning. 

"  Yes,  you  must  go,"  assented  Saxe, 
a  little  roughly. 

She  put  on  her  hat  without  speaking, 
and  they  followed  the  lantern  to  the 
waiting  wagon. 

"  Well  ? "  he  said  suddenly,  stop- 
ping. 

"I  —  I  would  rather  go." 

"  No.  Stay.  You  forget  the  chief 
thing,"  he  added,  forcing  a  laugh.  "  I 
do  not,  need  not,  know  your  name,  Ma- 
demoiselle! Can't  you  stay?  " 

"  '  Mademoiselle,'  '      she     repeated, 

121 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

hesitating.  Then,  holding  out  her 
hand,  "Very  well.  I  will  stay;  you 
will  not  know  my  name,  and  —  you 
will  forget  the  rest.  We  will  begin 
over  !  " 

Saxe  awoke  at  dawn,  a  sound  of  beat- 
ing mingling  with  the  every-day  one 
of  Leduc's  voice  raised  in  his  favorite 
"Le  vie  est  vaine."  Vague  reminis- 
cences of  house-cleaning,  years  ago  in 
his  grandmother's  day,  stirred  his  brain ; 
he  opened  his  eyes  to  find  his  tent 
flooded  with  rosy  light;  to  see,  beyond, 
a  patch  of  blue  sky,  blurred  and  broken 
by  stiff  pine  branches.  He  remem- 
bered, and  reaching  for  his  eyeglasses, 
put  them  on. 

u  I  say,  Leduc,  —  Bonnet,  —  what- 
ever your  name  is !  " 

"M'sieu?" 

122 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Leduc's  face,  rosy  as  the  dawn  itself 
in  spite  of  his  age,  appeared  in  the  open 
flap,  his  soft  curly  hair  ruffled. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  that  noise  ?  n 

The  old  man  entered  unceremoni- 
ously, a  stout  stick  in  his  hand. 

"  It  is  that  I  am  preparing  for  An- 
nette, M'sieu.  She  has  eyes  like  a 
hawk,  and  a  tongue  like  a  scourge." 

"  So  it  'was  house-cleaning  !  "  . 

"  C'est  £a.  I  Ve  been  beating  my 
mattress.  The  dust  in  that  mattress 
was  something  etonnant!  and  not  a 
grain  would  have  escaped  her.  A  ter- 
rible woman  ! " 

Saxe  turned  over  lazily.  "  Then  you 
think  she  will  be  coming  again  to-day  ?  " 

Leduc  rose  and  took  up  his  stick. 
"  Coming?  M'sieu  —  she  love  Leduc, 
that  old  woman.  It  is  a  cur'ous  thing, 
by  gum!  Twenty  years  ago  she  left 

123 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Leduc.  He  treated  her  pretty  bad,  an' 
she  could  n't  stand  it,  so  off  she  went 
at  the  end.  Now  —  here  she  is." 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  she 
has  n't  come  on  your  account,  you  old 
scoundrel,"  returned  Saxe,  watching 
him. 

"  Comment  c,a  ?  Why,  then  ?  Why 
she  come  ?  " 

"  Le  Mioche." 

Leduc  turned  and  looked  out  into  the 
morning. 

"Tiens,  Le  Mioche!" 

"  Yes,  Le  Mioche.  Now  look  here, 
Leduc.  Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  pay  you 
well,  last  year  ?  " 

"  Oui,  monsieur  "  — 

"  Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  give  you  a  new 
rifle,  and  a  present  in  money  besides  ?  " 

"  M'sieu  was  very  good  —  M'sieu  is 
galant  homme." 
124 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

The  old  man  turned,  his  face  irra- 
diated with  the  most  enchanting  of 
smiles. 

Saxe  went  on,  rubbing  his  eyeglasses 
on  a  corner  of  his  blanket.  "  Very  well. 
If  you  want  another  present  this  time, 

—  say  that  setter  of  Sam  Bradley's  and 
some  money,  —  you,  too,  are  going  to 
behave  like  a  —  galant  homme !  " 

"  M'sieu,  Leduc  is  a  galant  homme. 
Leduc  a  bad  man,  but  he  always  been 
a  slave  to  women." 

"  Nonsense !  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
a  slave,  but  I  won't  have  you  disappoint 

—  Annette." 

"M'sieu  a  raison.  Poor  Annette, 
she  would  be  very  sad.  Also  Made- 
moiselle." 

"  Also  Mademoiselle,"  agreed  Saxe, 
without  flinching  from  the  keen  eyes 
fixed  on  him. 

125 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  What  does  M'sieu  wish  me  to 
do  ?  "  asked  the  old  man,  unable,  as  he 
always  was,  to  look  long  into  Saxe's 
face,  and  turning  away. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  as  decent  as  your 
instincts,  partly  inherited,  no  doubt, 
also  partly  acquired,  will  allow  you." 
Then  with  a  mischievous  delight  he 
went  on  slowly:  "Those  fools  who 
deny  atavism,  inherited  tendency,  the 
whole  Darwinian  theory,  should  be 
confronted  in  a  body,  my  good  Leduc, 
with  you.  You  are  a  most  beautiful 
example  of  all  of  those  things.  The 
shape  of  your  head  is  distinctly  simian; 
your  instincts  are  simian,  —  splendidly 
so.  You  have  spent  the  greater  part  of 
your  life  in  the  humanizing  influence  of 
great  trees,  and  yet  you  are  untouched 
by  any  of  their  qualities.  Amazing, 
amazing!  " 
126 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

There  was  a  short  pause,  after  which 
the  old  man,  passing  his  hand  through 
his  hair  as  if  to  feel  the  shape  of  his 
head,  said :  — 

"  M'sieu  wishes  to  bathe,  this  morn- 
ing? What  time  does  M'sieu  want  his 
coffee?" 

Saxe  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Be  ready 
for  me  at  half  past  six — and  remem- 
ber: one  word  to  disappoint  your  poor 
wife,  —  no  dog,  no  present." 

Leduc  straightened  up.  "  It  is  not 
necessary  for  M'sieu  to  menacer.  Le- 
duc have  a  heart,  and  Leduc  grows 
old." 

Then  he  went  out  with  a  beautiful 
dignity  of  carriage. 

Saxe  splashed  about  in  the  still  gilded 
waters  of  the  little  lake  for  ten  min- 
utes, dressed,  and  appeared  at  the  fire 
promptly  at  half  past  six.  Breakfast 

127 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

was  ready.  Coffee,  fried  eggs,  bacon, 
and  johnny-cake.  Leduc,  in  a  clean 
flannel  shirt,  his  hair  still  separated 
into  gleaming,  wavy  locks  by  the  re- 
cent passage  of  a  wet  comb,  awaited 
him. 

When  Saxe  had  demonstrated  his 
good  humor  by  praise  of  the  johnny- 
cake,  the  old  man  began  gravely:  — 

"  M'sieu  —  Leduc  wants  to  tell 
M'sieu  something." 

"To  tell  me  something?  " 

"  Oui,  M'sieu  —  Leduc  has  no  chil- 
dren; he  is  a  poor  solitary  old  man  — 
except  when  M'sieu  is  with  him." 

Saxe  bowed  his  acknowledgment  of 
this  compliment  in  silence. 

"  But  Leduc,  —  Leduc  has  here  in 
his  breast  —  what  no  one  can  take  from 
him.  A  memory." 

The  sharp  blue  eyes  were  wet.  Saxe 
128 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

put  down  his  cup  and  watched  him,  a 
frown  of  interest  between  his  brows. 

"  Years  ago  —  Leduc  had  a  little 
child.  A  little  child  with  so  yellow 
curls.  God  sent  it  to  Leduc  to  make 
him  a  better  man.  But  God  got  tired 
of  trying  and  took  Le  Mioche." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  man,  stop  it!  " 

Saxe  rose  impatiently  and  turned 
away.  A  squirrel  rushed  across  an 
opening  in  the  trees,  his  plumy  tail 
erect;  birds  were  singing  everywhere; 
a  little  yellow  flower  peered  out  from 
the  mossy  roots  of  the  one  beech  near. 
Saxe  stooped  and  picked  the  flower 
with  gentle  ringers,  and  after  looking 
at  it  closely,  laid  it  between  the  leaves 
of  his  notebook. 

"M'sieu!" 

He  turned.  Leduc's  face  was  white, 
his  eyes  dry.  "  M'sieu,  you  wrong  an 

129 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

old  man.  Leduc  a  bad  man,  a  liar, 
he  beat  his  wife  when  he  was  drunk, 
he  cheat  at  cards.  But  Leduc  love  Le 
Mioche.  Le  Mioche  love  him.  M'sieu 
scold  about  Annette.  Bien  —  I  am 
sorry  she  comes,  —  ca  m'ennuie,  —  but 
M'sieu  go  to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche 
and  he  will  see  how  many  white  stones ! 
Thirty-one.  Every  year  one.  Leduc 
did  not  forget  Le  Mioche,  M'sieu." 

He   was   telling   the  truth,  and   the 
poor  dignity  in  his  voice  touched  Saxe, 
who  held  out  his  hand. 
•    "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Leduc.     I  was 
wrong,  and  I  am  sorry." 

Leduc  shook  his  hand  and  sat  down 
again  in  silence. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  at  last,  in  one 

of  his  accesses  of  good  French,  "you 

are  very  wise,  and  I  am  an  ignorant 

old  scoundrel,  but  I   have  taught  you 

130 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

one  thing  that  you  did  not  know  be- 
fore. The  worst  of  men  has  his  one 
good  quality.  The  blackest  of  sheep 
has  its  one  white  hair.  It  is  bad  to  be 
too  pessimistic." 

Saxe  repressed  a  smile  at  the  old 
man's  vain  delight  in  himself  as  an 
exposition  of  this  theory,  and  went  on 
with  his  breakfast. 

"  M'sieu,  Mademoiselle  is  pretty, 
is  n't  she  ?  " 

Saxe  started.  "  Pretty,  oh,  yes.  Very 
pretty,  and  very  good  —  I  gather  from 
your  wife." 

"  Yes,  very  good.  I  know  her  since 
she  was  a  little  baby.  That 's  why  I 
still  say  '  Mademoiselle.'  Her  real 


name  is" 


"  My  very  good  fellow,  do  you  think 
I  do  not  know  her  real  name  ?  " 

Leduc  started,  as  he  scraped  the  re- 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

maining  shreds  of  bacon  together  pre- 
paratory to  mopping  them  up  on  a  bit 
of  bread.  "  M'sieu  knew  her  before  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  knew  her  before,"  re- 
turned the  other  man,  taking  off  his 
glasses  and  opening  his  eyes  very  wide. 
"Why  should  n't  I  know  her?  " 

"  Dieu,  que  le  monde  est  petit!  But 
that  is  very  nice  for  her,  —  to  find 
M'sieu  here,  —  and  very  nice  for  M'sieu 
—  as  the  other  lady  does  not  come." 

"The  other  lady?" 

"  The  lady  whose  letter  makes 
M'sieu's  eyes  change.  Oh,  Leduc  is 
not  blind !  Last  year  there  was  a  let- 
ter, too  "  — 

Saxe  considered  a  minute,  and  then, 
vaguely  seeing  a  series  of  advantages 
to  be  derived  from  this  error,  laughed 
aloud. 

"  Leduc  certainly  is  not  blind.  As 
132 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

he  says,  I  cannot  have  the  lady  of  the 
letters,  so  it  will  be  very  agreeable  for 
me  to  see  something  of  Mademoiselle, 
who  is  charming,  too." 

"  I  suppose  M'sieu  will  not  be  com- 
ing to  the  woods  any  more  ?  " 

The  old  man,  encouraged  in  his  cu- 
riosity, smiled  knowingly.  "  He  will 
be  marrying  this  winter." 

"  Everything  is  possible  in  this  best 
of  possible  worlds.  Now,  then,  old 
chatterbox,  hurry  and  clear  away  that 
mess! " 


133 


II 


"  GOOD-MORNING,  Dr.  Saxe !  " 

Saxe  started  up  from  the  pine  needles 
on  which  he  had  been  lying  flat  on  his 
back.  She  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
slim  and  cool-looking  in  a  violet  linen 
dress,  with  a  sailor  hat  that  cast  a 
shadow  on  her  face,  leaving  in  the  light 
only  her  beautiful  mouth  and  rosy,  cleft 
chin. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  asleep,  and  it 
would  have  been  a  pity  to  waken  you." 

Not  a  trace  of  embarrassment  about 
her.  He  remembered  the  hesitancy  in 
his  voice  the  night  before,  and  won- 
dered. 

"  I  was  not  asleep.  I  was  merely 
dreaming  "  — 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

He  touched  her  proffered  hand  lightly, 
and  joined  her  as  she  took  the  way  to 
the  camp. 

"  Dreaming  ?  "  She  was  n't  even 
afraid  to  ask  him  that,  it  appeared. 

"  Yes.  Dreaming  about  a  half-in- 
vented anaesthetic  that  occupies  my 
thoughts  most  of  the  time,  even  here  in 
the  woods." 

"  If  I  were  a  man,  I  should  be  a  doc- 
tor," she  answered,  picking  up  a  pine 
cone  and  sniffing  at  it. 

"  I  have  not  practiced  for  years,  how- 
ever." 

"No?  What  a  strange  thing!  I 
should  think —  However,  no  doubt 
you  do  more  real  good  in  your  labora- 
tory." 

Saxe  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "  How 
do  you  know  I  have  a  laboratory?  "  he 
asked. 

'35 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"Every  one  has  heard  of  Richard 
Saxe  and  his  discoveries."  Her  mo- 
mentary hesitation  was  hardly  notice- 
able, and  she  went  on  with  the  leisurely 
calm  of  the  clever  woman  of  the  world. 
"  I  read  the  other  day  that  your  new 
book  is  the  success  of  the  year.  That 
must  be  very  gratifying?  " 

"  It  is  gratifying.  You  have  not  read 
it?" 

She  turned  her  clear  brown  eyes  full 
on  him,  as  devoid  of  expression  as  two 
pools  of  woodland  water. 

"  No,  I  fear  I  should  understand  very 
little  of  it.  Ah,  here  we  are.  I  wonder 
whether  you  could  give  me  a  glass  of 
water  ?  " 

Saxe  took  a  dipper  and  a  cup  and 

went  to  the  spring.    So  that  was  how  it 

was  to  be.     Very  good.     If  she  could 

keep  it  up,  —  and  she  evidently  could,  — 

136 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

he  would  be  able  to,  also.  It  would  be 
very  amusing.  He  dipped  up  the  cool 
water  and  filled  the  cup.  It  annoyed 
him  to  remember  his  agitation  of  the 
night  before.  It  always  annoys  a  man 
to  find  a  woman  unembarrassed  in  a 
situation  that  he  himself  is  unable  to 
carry  off  with  ease.  So  be  it.  Not  a 
word  or  a  hint  to  recall  any  former  ac- 
quaintance. He  frowned  savagely  as  he 
went  back  to  the  mossy  path.  It  had 
been  more  than  an  acquaintance,  it  had 
been  a  friendship,  but  as  she  chose  to 
ignore  it,  it  should  be  ignored. 

She  drank  the  water  with  a  delightful 
childlike  graciousness,  holding  out  the 
cup  to  be  refilled. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  a  tin  dipper  since  I 
was  a  small  child,"  she  said,  watching 
it  flash  in  the  sun  as  he  shook  it  free  of 
the  last  drops  of  water. 

'37 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  You  are  an  American,  are  you 
not?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  have  lived  in  Europe  for 
many  years.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  is 
my  first  visit  home  since  I  married !  " 

She  said  it  as  she  would  have  to  an 
utter  stranger.  Then,  with  a  change  of 
tone:  "  What  a  perfectly  beautiful  place 
you  have  chosen  for  your  camp !  Have 
you  been  here  long?" 

"Just  a  week.  I  was  at  Bar  Harbor, 
but  it  grew  too  gay  to  suit  me,  so  I  wired 
Leduc,  with  whom  I  have  camped  be- 
fore, and  came  on  at  a  day's  notice.  He 
is  a  charming  old  scamp,  and  will  amuse 
you." 

"  He  was  always  a  scamp,  and  al- 
ways charming.  I  remember  as  a  wee 
child  having  a  decided  and  unabashed 
preference  for  him,  somewhat  to  An- 
nette's disgust." 
'38 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Annette  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
the  cabin  as  she  spoke,  a  pair  of  brown 
velveteen  trousers  over  her  arm. 

"Lucien!  "  she  called. 

"  Leduc  is  skulking  behind  the  bushes 
there  by  the  lake,"  said  Saxe  in  an 
undertone,  "  but  he  might  as  well  give 
up;  his  day  of  reckoning  has  come." 

"Lucien!  Mademoiselle,  have  you 
seen  him?  " 

The  young  woman  turned.  "  Yes,  I 
have  seen  him,  but  I  am  not  going  to 
betray  him." 

"Betray  him!  His  clothes  are  in 
a  state,  —  and  the  key  of  his  chest  is 
not  in  the  pocket  as  he  said.  I  can 
at  least  darn  his  socks  if  I  can  get  at 
them." 

She  called  again,  and  then  went  re- 
luctantly back  into  the  cabin. 

"  I  confess  to  an  unregenerate  feel- 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ing  of  sympathy  for  Leduc,"  remarked 
Saxe,  looking  toward  the  place  where 
the  old  man  had  disappeared. 

"  So  do  I !  Oh,  so  do  I !  If  he  does 
n't  want  his  socks  darned,  why  darn 
them  ?  By  the  way,  Dr.  Saxe,  are  you 
going  to  ask  us  to  stay  to  breakfast,  — 
I  mean  dinner  ?  " 

"  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  ask, 
'  Mademoiselle,'  —  I  had  taken  it  for 
granted.  Leduc  has  a  fine  menu  ar- 
ranged, —  fried  fish  as  chief  attraction,  I 
believe,  only  —  By  Jove,  I  was  to  catch 
the  fish ! "  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"  After  eleven.  Dinner  is  at  twelve. 
Would  you  care  to  go  with  me?  The 
boat  is  perfectly  dry,  and  it  will  not  be 
very  warm." 

She  rose.  "  Of  course  I  care  to  go, 
and  I  shall  also  fish." 

"  I  doubt  it.     I  bait  with  worms." 
140 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Do  you  ?  Then  I,  too,  bait  with 
worms." 

He  laughed.  "  I  don't  believe  you 
ever  baited  a  hook  in  your  life.  Now 
did  you  ?  —  (  cross  your  heart  ? ' ' 

"  No.  But  to-day  I  bait  —  with 
worms." 

They  walked  to  the  lake,  and  found 
Leduc  busily  digging,  a  tin  box  beside 
him  on  a  fallen  log. 

"Worms?" 

"  Oui,  M'sieu." 

"  What 's  in  the  bundle  ?  "  asked  Saxe 
curiously,  poking  with  his  foot  an  un- 
couth newspaper  package  that  lay  near 
the  log. 

The  old  man  looked  up,  his  face 
quivering  with  laughter. 

"M'sieu  will  not  betray  me?  Nor 
Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  for  them  both. 

141 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Leduc  unrolled  the  paper  and  dis- 
played a  collection  of  brown  and  gray 
knitted  socks,  heelless  and  toeless  for 
the  most  part,  as  well  as  faded  and 
shabby. 

"  I  've  had  holes  in  my  socks  for 
twenty  years  and  more,"  he  explained  in 
French;  "I'm  used  to  'em,  I  like  'em, 
and  I  mean  to  have  'em.  She  's  a  good 
woman,  Annette,  and  I  'm  very  fond  of 
her,  but  she  is  as  obstinate  as  a  mule, 
and  " —  He  broke  off,  finishing  his  sen- 
tence by  rolling  the  bundle  together 
again,  and  driving  it  with  a  kick  firmly 
into  the  end  of  a  hollow  log. 

Still  laughing,  Saxe  and  his  compan- 
ion got  into  the  boat  and  pushed  off. 

"  She  is  the  gentlest  and  tenderest  of 
women  as  a  rule ;  this  is  an  entirely  new 
phase  to  me." 

"  The  effect  of  Leduc's  <  shadow '  on 
142 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

her,"  commented  Saxe  absently,  rowing 
out  into  the  brilliant  water. 

She  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  then 
set  to  work  disentangling  her  fishing 
line.  She  had  long  white  hands  with 
rather  square-tipped  fingers,  and  supple 
wrists.  He  noticed  that  she  wore  only 
one  ring,  a  ruby,  besides  her  wedding- 
ring.  She  baited  her  hook  without 
flinching,  or  any  offer  of  help  from  him, 
and  silence  fell  as  the  fish  began  to  bite. 
Saxe,  absent-minded,  lost  several  big 
fellows,  but  she  landed  one  after  the 
other  with  childish  delight,  expressed 
only  by  a  heightened  color  and  a  trem- 
bling of  pleasure  on  her  lips. 

At  length  Leduc  came  down  to  the 
shore  and  hailed  them.  "  Time  to  come 
back  if  you  want  to  eat  them  fish  to- 
day," he  called.  "  Especially  if  all  their 
heads  has  to  be  cut  off  first." 

'43 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"What  does  he  mean?"  she  asked, 
as  Saxe  obediently  pulled  up  the  big 
stone  that  served  as  anchor. 

"  He  is  laughing  at  me,  the  cheeky 
old  beggar.  I  cleaned  one  for  my  sup- 
per last  night"  — 

"The  one  that  burnt?" 

"  The  one  that  burnt.  And  I  cut  off 
its  head,  —  a  great  mistake,  it  seems. 
How  many  are  there  ?  " 

She  bent  over,  poking  the  gasping 
things  with  one  finger.  "  Two  —  three 
—  five  —  seven !  " 

The  scent  of  the  pines  was  strong  in 
the  noon  sun  as  they  landed;  the  dark- 
ness of  the  thick  boughs  pleasant  and 
cool.  Leduc  put  the  fish  in  a  net,  and 
went  up  to  the  cabin  by  a  short  cut. 

Saxe  took  off  his  hat.  "It  is  very 
warm;  are  you  tired?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  I  live  a  good  deal  in  the 
144 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

country,  and  often  am  hours  tramping 
about  in  much  rougher  places  than  this." 

"  Ah!  Then  you  will  rather  enjoy  a 
few  days  spent  in  this  way." 

"  Yes.  But  Annette  and  Lucien  will 
be  off  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  bore  my- 
self to  death  on  the  veranda  of  the 
Windsor  House." 

"That  must  be  rather  bad.  Are 
your  fellow  victims  quite  impossible,  or 
can  you  amuse  yourself  with  any  of 
them?" 

"  There  are  only  two.  One  an  old 
lady  from  Dover,  who  is  perfectly  deaf, 
the  other  a  young  man  of  the  shop-keep- 
ing class,  —  very  ill,  poor  boy.  He  told 
me,  with  pride,  that  one  of  his  lungs 
was  entirely  gone." 

"  Then  let  us  hope  that  the  grave  of 
Le  Mioche  is  not  too  far.  Leduc  is  such 
a  slow-moving  creature  that  but  for  fear 

H5 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

of  being  in  the  way,  I  should  go  with 
them  to  urge  him  on,  that  your  martyr- 
dom may  not  be  too  long." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  smile  twitching 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "  What  have 
I  done?" 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  He  stared 
back  relentlessly. 

"  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  you 
know !  Come,  don't  be  cross  any  more." 

With  a  sudden  access  of  perfectly 
frank  coquetry,  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  "  Are  you  nice  again  ?  Remem- 
ber you  have  sworn  allegiance  to  "  — 

He  smiled  as  he  took  her  hand,  but 
his  eyes  were  grave. 

"  To  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches." 


146 


Ill 

LEDUC,  pressed  by  his  wife  for  infor- 
mation as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the 
little  grave,  was  vague.  It  was  off  to 
the  northwest,  he  said.  The  trees  he 
had  planted  around  it  were  big  now. 

Then,  urged  to  greater  explicitness, 
he  subsided  into  a  ruminating  silence, 
which  Annette  apparently  knew  of  old, 
for  she  made  no  effort  to  break  it,  but 
sat  with  folded  hands  watching  the 
afternoon  sun  on  the  trees.  She  was  a 
handsome  old  woman,  with  a  fine  aqui- 
line profile  and  a  velvety  brown  mole 
on  one  cheek.  Saxe  liked  her  face,  and 
decided,  looking  at  it  with  the  thought- 
ful eye  of  the  student,  that  after  all  she 
had  done  well  in  leaving  her  husband, 

147 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

so  much  her  inferior,  and  developing 
her  character  in  her  own  way. 

The  two  women  had  stayed  on  at  the 
camp  all  day  with  a  matter-of-factness 
that  Saxe  knew  must  have  originated  in 
the  younger  of  them.  She  chose  to  stay, 
and  chose  to  stay  in  her  own  way,  with- 
out discussion,  without  fuss.  It  was  she 
who  had,  without  any  mention  of  the 
missing  socks,  persuaded  Annette  that 
her  husband's  habits,  fixed  for  over 
twenty  years,  need  not  be  disturbed,  and 
the  old  woman  had  followed  her  back 
to  the  fire  without  protest. 

They  sat  for  two  hours,  Saxe  and  the 
women,  talking  little,  drowsy  with  the 
aroma  of  the  woods,  and  full  each  of 
his  or  her  own  thoughts.  Saxe  would 
not  have  offered  to  move  till  night.  All 
initiation,  he  had  determined,  perhaps 
with  a  touch  of  malice,  should  come 
148 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

from  her.  His  malice,  however,  failed, 
for  toward  sundown  she  turned  to  him, 
and  in  the  sweetest  voice  in  the  world, 
asked  whether  there  was  no  place  near 
from  which  they  might  see  the  sun- 
set. 

"Yes,  if  you  are  good  for  a  rather 
rough  tramp  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
"  I  am.     Will  you  take  me  ?  " 
He  rose.     "With  pleasure." 
She    gave   a   few   directions   to   the 
old  woman,  then  joined  him,  and  they 
went  in  silence  through  the  trees.   After 
a  few  minutes  the  ground,  slippery  with 
dead    leaves    and   rough   with    hidden 
stones,  rose  abruptly.    She  looked  down 
suddenly,  and  up,  and  then,  still  with- 
out speaking,  into  Saxe's  face,  which 
remained    perfectly  stolid.     The   trees 
were  beeches. 

"  Beeches  are  my  favorite  trees,"  che 

149 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

said  calmly,  pausing  and  breaking  off  a 
tuft  of  the  fresh  green  leaves. 

"Are  they?  We  are  just  on  the 
edge  of  a  rather  large  tract  of  them. 
Be  careful,  the  ruts  are  very  deep. 
There  used  to  be  a  logging-camp  about 
a  mile  ahead  of  us,  and  this  is  the  old 
road  to  it." 

"  I  shall  not  stumble." 

The  silence,  half  resentful,  senseless 
as  he  felt  such  resentment  to  be,  on  his 
side,  was  apparently  that  of  great  inter- 
est on  hers.  She  moved  deliberately, 
with  the  grace  of  considerable,  well- 
distributed  strength,  pausing  now  and 
then  to  look  at  some  particular  tree, 
once  to  pick  a  long  fern  which  she 
carried  like  a  wand.  When  they  had 
reached  the  height  and  come  out  on  the 
narrow  ledge,  below  which  a  clearing, 
stretching  to  the  horizon,  gave  them  a 
150 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

full  view  of  the  sinking  sun,  she  uttered 
a  little  cry  of  pleasure,  and  then,  sitting 
down  on  a  stump,  was  again  still. 

Just  below  the  ledge  ran  a  thread  of 
a  brook  in  a  wide  rocky  bed  ;  beyond 
it  a  broad  strip  of  silver  beeches  swayed 
in  the  light,  dying  wind,  and  then  came 
the  plain,  the  stumps  of  the  trees  al- 
ready half  covered  with  a  growth  of 
rough  grass,  young  trees,  and  bracken. 
Saxe  was  fond  of  the  place,  and,  though 
sunsets  made  him  vaguely  unhappy, 
had  often  walked  up  there  at  that 
hour. 

He  leaned  against  a  tree  and  watched 
the  scene.  It  was  very  beautiful,  now 
that  the  sky  was  a  glare  of  crimson  and 
gold,  but  he  had  seen  it  before,  and  for 
the  first  time  he  could  study  in  safety 
the  face  of  the  woman.  Her  profile, 
outlined  against  a  wall  of  rough  rock, 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

was  clear-cut  and  strong;  her  head, 
bare  in  the  light,  a  glow  of  warm  gold 
divided  by  a  narrow  parting  from  the 
forehead  to  the  knot  at  the  crown.  It 
was  a  well-shaped  head,  and  well 
placed  on  the  broad,  sloping  shoulders. 
Her  mouth,  red  and  curved,  was  a  little 
set,  the  deep-dented  corners  giving  it  a 
look  of  weary  determination.  In  spite 
of  the  radiance  of  her  hair,  she  looked 
her  full  age. 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  caught  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"  A  penny  "  —  she  said  carelessly. 

He  swooped  down  on  his  glasses  and 
took  them  off.  "  I  was  wondering  — 
you  must  n't  be  offended  —  whether  or 
no  your  hair  was  dyed." 

"  And  what  did  you  decide  ?  " 

"  I  had  n't  decided  at  all.     You  in- 
terrupted me." 
152 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

She  laughed  the  little  laugh  that  made 
her  both  younger  and  older:  "  I  am  so 
sorry.  Pray  —  go  on  considering." 
And  she  turned  again  to  the  sky. 

Her  perfect  unconcern  made  him  feel 
like  a  snubbed  schoolboy,  but  his  face 
only  hardened  a  little  as  he  sat  down 
on  the  grass  near  by,  and  directed  his 
eyes  to  the  banks  of  purpling  clouds 
that  hung,  gold-edged,  over  the  hori- 
zon. 

At  last  it  was  over;  the  light  died 
away;  the  moon,  nearly  full,  became 
visible;  night  .had  come. 

"  I  think  we  'd  better  go  down,"  Saxe 
observed,  rising,  and  putting  on  his  hat. 
"  It  will  be  dark  under  the  trees,  and 
supper  will  be  ready.  I  hope  you  're 
hungry  ? " 

"  I  am  ravenous.  And  —  thanks,  so 
much,  for  bringing  me  up  here.  It  has 

'53 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

been  the  delightful  finish  to  a  delightful 
day."  There  was  a  little  tone  of  final- 
ity in  her  voice  that  hurt  him. 

"  I  hope  it  is  n't  the  last  time,"  he 
said  politely,  as  they  reached  the  rough 
road  and  began  the  descent. 

"  I  fear  it  must  be,  Dr.  Saxe.  Leduc 
—  I  mean  Lucien  —  will  surely  take 
her  to-morrow,  and  I  can  hardly  roam 
about  in  the  woods  after  nightfall  with 
you,  without  even  their  nominal  chap- 
eronage,  can  I?  "  She  smiled  at  him, as 
if  amused  by  the  absurdity  of  her  own 
question. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  returned.  "  It 
is  a  pity,  though,  for  the  sunsets  are 
always  good,  and  you  seem  really  to 
care  for  such  things." 

"  Yes.    I  really  care  for  such  things." 

They  neither  of  them  spoke  again 
until  they  reached  the  camp,  fragrant 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

with  the  odors  of  coffee  and  frying 
ham. 

To  Saxe  the  day  had  been  one  of 
disappointments,  he  did  not  quite  know 
why  nor  how. 

It  was  not  that  she  had  kept  him  at 
a  distance,  for  he  had  expected  that,  and 
had  several  times  taken  a  sort  of  plea- 
sure in  doing  as  much  to  her.  It  was 
not  that  he  was  disappointed  in  her  her- 
self; she  was  beautiful,  well-bred,  all 
that  he  had  known  she  must  be.  And 
yet  he  was  dissatisfied  and  a  little  sore. 
He  remembered  a  phrase  in  one  of  her 
letters :  "  If  your  eyes  happened  to  be 
blue  instead  of  brown,  or  brown  instead 
of  gray,  I  should  be  disappointed.  More 
—  if  you  had  a  certain  kind  of  mouth 
I  should  be  quite  unable  to  like  you," 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  hopelessly  as 
he  combed  his  hair  in  his  tent.  "  That 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

must  be  it.  She  does  not  like  me.  She 
is  '  unable  to  like  me.' ' 

He  went  back  to  the  fire  resolved  not 
to  care.  During  supper  he  was  very 
gay,  almost  brilliant,  with  the  brilliance 
mental  pain  sometimes  gives ;  he  talked 
of  many  things,  skillfully  ignoring  any 
subject  that  could  spoil  the  mood  to 
which  he  was  grateful.  Leduc,  never 
shy,  had  his  full  share  of  the  conversa- 
tion, and  also  of  the  whiskey  punch, 
which,  as  the  evening  was  cool,  Saxe 
insisted  on  making,  and  made  very 
well.  Old  Annette,  sad  and  absent, 
spoke  little. 

"  The  boy  is  coming  with  the  wagon 
at  nine,"  the  young  woman  said  at  last, 
bending  to  the  firelight  to  look  at  her 
watch.  "  It  is  a  quarter  before,  now." 

She  rose  and  put  on  her  hat. 

"  Thank  you  again,"  she  said,  holding 
156 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

out  her  hand  to  Saxe,  "  for  a  most  en- 
chanting day.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  The  pleasure 
was  mine."  Then  turning  to  Leduc,  he 
went  on,  "  You  will  want  a  few  days' 
leave,  I  understand,  beginning  with 
to-morrow?  How  far  is  the  —  place 
you  are  going  to  ?  " 

The  old  man,  taken  by  surprise,  hes- 
itated. "  Non,  non,  not  to-morrow, 
M'sieu.  It  is  not  so  far." 

"  Then  why  not  to-morrow  ?  Made- 
moiselle and  your  wife  cannot  have 
much  time  to  devote  to  you  and  your 
caprices.  Allons ! " 

"  It  is  not  so  far,  —  but  also  it  is  not 
so  near.  I  —  have  a  very  bad  knee.  A 
knee  to  make  pity,  could  you  see  it, 
Mademoiselle.  Rheumatism,  and  —  a 
fall  I  got  this  morning.  I  am  a  lame 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  He  lies,  M'sieu,"  interrupted  An- 
nette, her  lips  shaking.  "  I  know  his 
face  when  he  lies." 

"  So  do  I.  I  '11  arrange  it  for  you, 
Annette.  Ah,  there  is  the  wagon." 

He  accompanied  them  to  it,  and  saw 
them  off  without  asking  about  their 
plans  for  the  next  day.  Then  he  went 
back  to  Leduc,  whom  he  found  rum- 
maging busily  in  a  box  for  a  bottle  of 
arnica. 

"  Very  foolish  of  M'sieu  to  take  sides 
with  her.  She  is  a  silly  old  woman. 
And  then,  when  we  go,  M'sieu  will  be 
all  alone"  he  observed,  as  Saxe  ap- 
proached. 

"  Shut  up,  Leduc.  And  either  you  go 
to-morrow,  or  you  get  no  dog.  Com- 
pris  ?  " 

Then  he  went  into  his  tent  and  let 
down  the  flap. 
158 


IV 

THE  next  morning  Leduc,  bringing  an 
armful  of  wood  to  the  camp,  slipped, 
fell,  and  twisted  his  ankle.  Saxe,  miss- 
ing him,  and  led  by  his  groans,  bent 
over  him  with  a  skeptical  smile  that  dis- 
appeared as  he  saw  the  old  man's  face. 

"  It  is  a  judgment  on  you,"  he  could 
not  resist  saying,  when  he  had  half 
dragged,  half  carried,  the  much  more 
helpless  than  necessary  invalid  into  the 
cabin,  and  cut  off  his  boot. 

Leduc  grinned  in  the  midst  of  his 
pain.  "  Bien  —  how  you  will,  M'sieu. 
Leduc  badly  hurt.  Leduc  lame  man. 
Maintenant  il  ne  s'agira  plus  des  peleri- 
nages." 

Unable  to  guess  the  reason  for  the  old 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

man's  objections  to  conducting  his  wife 
to  the  child's  grave,  and  unwilling  to 
gratify  him  by  questions,  Saxe  dressed 
the  foot  in  silence,  and  then  set  off  him- 
self to  the  village  to  do  certain  errands 
and  fetch  the  mail.  Mrs.  Lounsberry, 
the  postmistress,  with  whom  he  was 
rather  a  favorite,  questioned  him,  with 
the  delighted  curiosity  of  a  lonely  wo- 
man, about  the  mysterious  guest  at  the 
hotel. 

"  Henry  says  he  drives  'em  every  day 
over  to  your  place,  and  fetches  'em  again 
after  sundown.  Any  relations  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  young  lady  is  my  cousin, 
the  elder  one  the  wife  of  —  a  friend  of 
mine.  Have  I  no  newspapers?" 

"  Did  n't    I    give  'em    to   you  ?     Oh, 

here  they  are.    Well,  as  the  lady 's  your 

cousin,   I  presume  you  know  how  to 

pronounce  her  name.     It  does  beat  all, 

160 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

that  name.  More  than  /can  make  out. 
There  's  a  couple  of  letters  for  her,  if 
you  happen  to  be  going  that  way." 

"  I  '11  take  them,"  he  returned,  with  a 
sudden  resolve,  "  but  there  's  no  use  my 
telling  you  how  to  pronounce  her  name, 
—  I  can  hardly  manage  it  myself. 
Good-morning." 

He  put  the  letters  in  his  pocket  and 
went  down  the  straggling  village  street 
to  the  "  hotel,"  a  large  white  house, 
girdled  by  a  slanting  veranda. 

"  If  she  is  in  sight,  I  shall  go  up.  If 
not,  I  '11  send  for  Annette.  I  '11  have 
to  tell^  her  about  Leduc,  anyway,"  he 
decided. 

When  he  turned  the  corner  of  the 
building  he  saw  a  small  group  of  rock- 
ing-chairs in  a  shady  corner  of  the  ve- 
randa, and  over  the  back  of  one  of  them 
a  mass  of  gold-brown  hair  that  he  knew. 

161 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE   BEECHES 

The  other  chairs  were  occupied  by  An- 
nette and  a  fiddle-headed  young  man 
drinking  a  glass  of  milk.  Annette  saw 
him  first,  and  rose,  with  a  resumption 
of  manner  that  she  had  not  found  it  ne- 
cessary to  use  toward  the  milk-drinking 
youth. 

"  Bonjour,  M'sieu." 

"  Bonjour,  Annette.  —  Good-morn- 
ing." 

The  younger  woman  looked  up  from 
her  embroidery  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"  Good-morning.  How  kind  of  you  to 


come." 


"  I  have  letters  for  you."  He  handed 
them  to  her  without  a  word  of  expla- 
nation or  assurance,  and  she  took  them 
as  unconcernedly.  "  Thanks." 

She  wore  a  pink  gown  of  a  kind  that 
convinced  him  of  her  intention  of  stay- 
ing at  home  that  day,  and  rocked  her 
162 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

chair  slowly  with  deliberate  pattings  of 
a  foot  in  a  high-heeled  shoe  adorned 
with  a  large  square  buckle.  Saxe  sat 
down  in  the  chair  vacated  by  the  youth, 
and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  I  have  bad  news  for  you,"  he  be- 
gan presently,  as  she  finished  reading 
her  letters.  "  Leduc  has  hurt  his  foot 
and  —  and  cannot  possibly  go  —  any- 
where —  for  three  or  four  days." 

Annette  clasped  her  hands.  "  Mon 
Dieu,  mon  Dieu !  Is  it  true,  M'sieu,  or 
is  it  only  one  of  his  tricks  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  Annette." 

"  Annette,  fetch  the  book  that 's  lying 
on  my  table,  —  and  put  these  letters  in 
my  writing-case." 

The  old  woman  obeyed,  leaving  them 
alone. 

"  Has  Leduc  really  hurt  his  foot,  Dr. 

Saxe?" 

163 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

There  was  no  trace  of  insolence  in 
her  tone,  but  he  understood,  and  the 
question  brought  the  blood  to  his  face. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  me  tell  Annette 
that  he  has  ?  "  he  answered,  his  brows 
knitting. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  you." 

"Then  why  —  tell  me  why  should 
I  take  the  trouble  to  lie  about  such  a 
trifle  ?" 

She  bit  her  lip.  "  I  thought  you  might 
possibly  let  him  keep  up  the  pretense 
of  being  unable  to  go  "  — 

"  That  I  might  have  the  pleasure 
of  detaining  you  here  for  a  few  days 
longer  ?  Believe  me,  dear  lady,  I 
have  no  fancy  for  unwilling  companion- 
ship, even  yours." 

He  had  gone  farther  than  he  had  in- 
tended, and  stopped,  a  trifle  ashamed 
of  his  vehemence.  Another  second, 
164 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

and  he  would  probably  have  lost  his 
point  by  apologizing,  when  she  said, 
with  such  unexpected  gentleness  that 
he  almost  gasped:  "But  you  are  so 
wrong!  My  companionship,  such  as  it 
is,  is  anything  but  unwilling,  Dr.  Saxe. 
I  enjoyed  yesterday  so  much,  and  had 
hoped  "  — 

"  You  had  hoped  "  —  he  repeated. 

"  That  you  would  let  us  come  over 
to  the  camp  this  afternoon  again,  —  in 
case  Leduc  was  obstinate  and  refused 
to  go." 

Saxe  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  ve- 
randa and  stood  looking  down  at  a  bed 
of  sprawling  nasturtiums  at  his  feet. 
When  he  turned,  his  eyeglasses  were 
in  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said 
bluntly,  "  and  I  might  as  well  own  that 
I  don't.  Tell  me  what  it  is  you  want, 

165 


and  Heaven  knows  I  '11  give  it  to  you 
if  I  can." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  be  perfectly 
frank  :  I  like  you,  I  like  the  camp,  and 
I  wish  you  'd  be  nice,  and  just  '  begin 
over,'  as  you  promised  the  night  before 
last." 

"  You  ask  a  good  deal." 

"  I  know  it.  But  it 's  the  only  way. 
Don't  you  see,  we  are  strangers,  yet  we 
know  each  other  embarrassingly  well  ; 
I  have  told  you  things  that  no  one  else 
knows,  —  shown  you  a  side  no  one  else 
ever  saw  '*  —  She  said  it  bravely,  her 
face  full  to  the  noon  sun. 

"  And  now  you  regret  it  ?  "  he  asked 
gently. 

She  paused.     "  No,  I  do  not  regret 
it,  only  you  are  not  my  Pessimist,  and 
I    am   not   your  —  your    Lady   of   the 
Beeches." 
1 66 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  But  that  is  just  what  you  are  —  my 
Lady  of  the  Beeches.  You  are  that, 
and  neither  you  nor  I  can  help  it!  You 
told  me  in  those  letters  not  a  word  that 
you  should  not  have  told,  there  was  not 
a  word  of  harm  in  them,  and  I  can't  see 
why  you  won't  have  me,  Richard  Saxe, 
for  the  friend  you  yourself  declared  the 
Pessimist  to  be  to  you.  If  you  would  let 
me,  I  would  be  to  you  the  best  friend  a 
woman  ever  had." 

She  shook  her  head.     "No,  no." 

"  You  mean  that  you  don't  believe  in 
such  friendships ?  Good!  no  more  do 
I.  But  —  I  love  you.  You  know  that. 
You  knew  it  long  ago,  yet  you  let  me 
keep  on  being  your  friend.  Is  not  that 
so?" 

She  acknowledged  the  truth  of  his 
statement  with  a  slow  nod,  and  he  went 
on. 

167 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  That  can't  hurt  you.  You  know 
who  I  am;  you  know  all  about  me. 
Surely  you  can  trust  me  never  to  make 
love  to  you  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  And  —  even  if  I  were  a  fool  and 
a  cad,  and  a  man  would  have  to  be 
both  to  dare  to  make  love  to  you  — 
you  must  know  that  you  are  perfectly 
capable  of  —  keeping  me  in  order." 

She  smiled  meditatively.  "  Yes,  I 
think  I  could." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  see,  —  what 
is  the  use  of  trying  to  pretend  that  the 
last  year  has  not  existed,  —  that  we 
do  not  know  each  other  ?  What  I  pro- 
pose is  unconventional,  but  you  surely 
are  not  afraid  of  that  —  at  least  up  here 
in  the  wilderness.  Give  me  your  hand 
and  let  us  be  friends  until  you  go  away, 
or  until  you  choose  to  send  me  away. 
168 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

'Etpuis,  bonsoir! '  I  do  not  know  your 
name;  you  know  I  will  never  learn  it 
against  your  will.  Trust  me." 

"  My  name  is  Winifred  Zerdahelyi," 
she  answered,  giving  him  her  hand, 
"  and  I  do  trust  you." 

"  Thanks." 

He  dropped  her  hand  as  some  one 
came  up  the  board  walk  toward  them. 
It  was  Henry  Cobb,  the  boy  who  drove 
the  two  women  to  and  from  the  camp. 
He  had  come  for  orders. 

"We  are  going  in  half  an  hour, 
Henry,"  Winifred  said,  "  if  you  can  be 
ready." 

Then  she  turned  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way  to  Saxe.  "  I  must  go  and  put  on 
another  gown.  Will  you  wait  and  drive 
over  with  us  ?  " 


169 


V 


HE  noticed  when  she  and  old  Annette 
came  down  a  few  minutes  later  that 
she  carried  a  little  green  bag  with  satin 
strings.  It  was  very  warm,  and  the  first 
part  of  the  drive  being  through  bare 
fields,  she  wore  a  big  hat  with  a  wreath 
of  hop-flowers  on  it,  a  charming  hat  that 
he  liked.  He  sat  in  front  with  Cobb, 
but  arranged  himself  sideways  that  he 
might  both  see  and  hear  her.  She  was 
in  a  merry  mood,  rattling  on  carelessly 
about  the  scenery,  the  hotel,  and  a 
thousand  different  things,  rather  to 
help  him,  he  realized.  For  he  himself 
found  talking  an  effort ;  even  thinking 
bothered  him,  and  his  mind  hovered 
170 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

aimlessly  between  the  hop-flowers  on 
her  hat  and  the  green  bag. 

For  a  man  of  his  age  and  character, 
the  declaration  he  had  made  was  a  very 
momentous  one,  and  curiously  enough 
it  seemed  the  more  momentous  in  that 
it  must  of  itself  prove  absolutely  without 
results  of  any  kind.  He  knew  that  she 
did  not  care  for  him,  and  was  glad  of 
it;  but  the  fact  of  his  having  blurted 
out  in  that  bold  way  that  he  loved  her 
had  momentarily  dazed  him.  The  mem- 
ory of  his  one  other  declaration  of  the 
kind  came  back  to  him  as  they  jogged 
over  the  rough  road:  the  moonlight, 
the  long  gravel  walk  leading  up  be- 
tween fragrant  rosebushes  to  the  white 
house,  the  garden  gate  on  which  she 
had  leaned  while  he  talked.  Of  course 
he  had  not  been  a  saint,  and  like  other 
men  he  had  had  his  experiences  with 

171 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

women,  but  he  had  loved  but  twice  in 
his  life,  and  he  knew  it. 

He  also  felt,  his  eyes  resting  on  her 
hands  as  they  held  the  green  bag,  that 
he  was  not  so  old  as  he  had  fancied 
himself  to  be. 

"  We  had  a  college  professor  up  here 
once,"  Cobb  was  saying,  "  but  we  never 
had  no  countesses  before." 

"  Countesses  are  very  common  in  Eu- 
rope, though,"  she  answered,  laughing, 
"  thousands  of  us." 

They  had  reached  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  and  leaving  the  road,  drove  across 
a  broad  tract  of  hummocky  land,  the 
hummocks  treacherously  hidden  by  a 
thick  low  growth  of  blueberries  and 
scrub  oaks. 

"There's  a  bad  bit  of  broken  road 
down  yonder  that  we  avoid,  comin' 

'raound    this    way,"    explained    Cobb, 
172 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

urging  his  horse  to  a  rather  reckless 
gait. 

Saxe  wondered  vaguely  whether  they 
would  upset. 

They  reached  the  camp  to  find  Leduc 
busy  with  the  fire. 

"  M'sieu  can  live  on  letters,  perhaps, 
but  Leduc  not.  Mon  Dieu,  ces  dames !" 

He  swept  off  his  hat  with  an  ironical 
smile  at  his  wife.  "  Desolated  to  be 
unable  to  rise,  but  my  foot  is  very  bad 
—  very  bad,  as  M'sieu  will  tell  you." 

Saxe  laughed  with  sudden  gayety. 
"  Not  very  bad,  old  sinner.  Just  bad 
enough,  that  is  all." 

There  was  nothing  to  eat,  and  they 
were  hungry.  Annette,  touched  by  the 
look  of  pain  in  her  husband's  face, 
helped  him  to  a  tree,  arranged  him 
comfortably,  and  with  a  peremptory 
gesture  forbade  his  moving.  Then  she 

'73 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

set  to  work  to  prepare  the  dinner. 
Luckily,  Saxe  had  brought  meat  and  a 
fresh  loaf  of  bread  from  the  village,  so 
by  two  o'clock  they  were  eating  a  very 
appetizing  little  meal. 

"  M'sieu  objected  very  much  last  year 
to  being  so  near  the  village,"  Leduc, 
most  graceful  of  invalids,  explained  in 
French,  as  he  drank  his  third  cup  of 
coffee;  "but  Leduc  has  lived  in  the 
woods  long  enough  to  know  the  advan- 
tages of  civilization  and  butcher's  meat. 
Leduc's  teeth,  too,  are  old  for  dog-bis- 
cuits, such  as  the  young  swells  from 
New  York  eat  when  out  hunting." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  yourself  in 
the  third  person?  And  why  do  you  call 
yourself  Leduc  ?  " 

The  Countess  fixed  her  direct  gaze 
on  him  as  she  asked  her  questions. 

He  laughed.  "  I  lived  for  years  with 
'74 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

French  half-breeds  up  in  the  north,  — 
they  always  use  the  third  person.  As  to 
Leduc,  —  they  called  me  '  le  due  '  be- 
cause I  had  a  manner.  You  will  admit, 
Mademoiselle,  that  the  name  is  prettier 
than  Bonnet,  va!  " 

Saxe  tried  to  reason  away  his  own 
senseless  happiness  that  expressed  itself 
in  what  he  felt  to  be  a  boundless  grin. 
"  It  will  be  over  in  a  few  days ;  she  will 
be  gone;  she  will  never  think  of  me 
again,"  he  told  himself.  But  it  was  in 
vain.  She  was  there;  she  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  and  she  still  was  there;  he 
could  hear  her  voice,  see  the  sun  on  her 
hair;  she  met  his  eyes  fearlessly,  if  also 
indifferently,  and  life  was  one  great 
heart-throb  of  joy. 

After  dinner  he  helped  Annette  carry 
the  dishes  into  the  cabin,  and  coming 
back  found  Leduc  stretched  out  on  his 

'75 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

face,  sound  asleep,  the  Countess,  the  bag 
open  beside  her,  working  placidly  on  the 
big  square  of  embroidery  he  had  seen 
that  morning  at  the  hotel.  Saxe's  head 
swam.  She  looked  so  comfortable,  so 
much  at  home.  She  pointed  smilingly 
at  the  old  man  as  Saxe  sat  down.  "  No 
one  ever  so  enjoyed  the  advantages 
of  a  sprained  foot  before.  Just  look  at 
him!" 

"  Ill-mannered  old  wretch  !  What 
are  you  making  ? " 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  tak- 
ing the  linen  by  one  corner  spread  it 
over  his  knees. 

"  It  is  a  tea-cloth,  of  course.  Do 
you  like  it?  " 

The  design  was  a  conventional  one, 
done    in    different    shades    of    yellow. 
Saxe  could  not  honestly  say  he  admired 
it,  and  she  laughed  at  his  hesitation. 
176 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Would  n't  —  well  —  flowers  be 
prettier?  "  he  ventured. 

"  What  kind  of  flowers  ?  " 

"  M  —  m  —  m.  /  always  liked  wild 
roses  —  pink  ones." 

She  paused  while  she  re-threaded 
her  needle,  and  then  answered  gayly, 
"  Would  you  like  a  tea-cloth  with  pink 
wild  roses  all  over  it?" 

"Would  I  like  one!" 

"  I  will  make  you  one.  Only  I  am 
sure  that  you  never  drink  tea,  now  do 
you?" 

"  No,  hang  it,  I  don't!  I  never  drink 
anything  but  an  occasional  whiskey 
and  soda."  He  passed  his  brown,  slim 
hand  gently  over  the  silks,  and  drew 
back. 

"  We  '11  call  it  a  <  whiskey  and  soda 
cloth,'  then,"  she  returned. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  began,  after  a  long 

177 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

pause,  during  which  she  worked  busily, 
"  did  you  ever  get  even  with  that  —  that 
beast  in  London?  " 

She  flushed.  "Yes.  That  is  —  I 
told  my  husband,  and  he  convinced  him 
of  hi^  —  mistake." 

"How,  with  a  bullet?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  It  was  n't  worth 
that,  was  it?  I  don't  quite  know  what 
Bela  said  to  him,  but  it  answered  the 
purpose." 

"  '  Bela.'  It  is  a  pretty  name.  Tell 
me  about  him." 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?  He  is 
thirty-four,  tall,  handsome, — what  men 
call  a  good  sort." 

Saxe  lay  down  and  tilted  his  hat  over 
his  eyes. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  asking  about 
him?  It  interests  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  mind." 
178 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  He  must  be  very  proud  of  you." 

She  laughed  quietly.  "  Proud  ?  I 
don't  know.  He  is  very  fond  of  me." 

"  That  of  course.     I  meant  proud." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "  No,  poor 
fellow,  I  think  he  is  somewhat  ashamed 
of  me,  at  times.  You  see,  Hungarian 
women  are  very  brilliant,  —  very  amus- 
ing, —  and  I  am  rather  dull." 

"  Dull !  "  Saxe  sat  up,  and  took  off 
his  eyeglasses.  "You!" 

"  Yes,  I.  You  remember  I  wrote 
you  of  my  unfortunate  passion  for  trees, 
and  that  kind  of  thing.  Things  that 
other  women  like  bore  me  to  death, 
and  when  I  am  bored  I  am"  — 

"Horrid!" 

They  both  laughed.  "Then,"  she 
went  on,  laying  down  her  work  and 
leaning  against  the  tree,  "  I  don't  know 
anything  about  horses,  and  every  one 

179 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

else  there  is  mad  about  them.  Bela 
runs  all  over  Europe,  and  I  won't  go 
with  him.  It  is  not  nice  of  me,  but  it 
does  bore  me  so!  " 

"  Tell  me  more,"  said  Saxe  greedily. 

"But  it  isn't  interesting!  And  I 
don't  know  what  you  want  to  know." 

"  I  want  to  know  all  you  will  tell 
me,"  he  answered,  his  voice  falling  sud- 
denly. 

She  took  up  her  work  and  went  on 
without  looking  at  him.  "  Last  year 
we  went  to  Russia  for  some  bear-hunt- 
ing. I  stayed  in  St.  Petersburg  with 
his  uncle,  who  is  Austrian  Minister  "  — 

"  That  was  when  you  supped  with  an 
Emperor! " 

"  Yes.  I  did  n't  mean  that  I  sat  at 
his  right  hand,  you  know!  " 

"  I  know.     Tell  me,  —  where  is  the 
beech  forest?  " 
180 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  It  is  in  Hungary,  about  two  hours 
from  Budapest.  Bela  hates  the  place; 
it  is  lonely,  so  I  usually  go  there  alone." 

"That  is  one  reason  why"  —  he  be- 
gan, and  stopped  short. 

She  looked  up  inquiringly;  then  her 
eyes  changed,  and  she  went  on.  "  One 
reason  why  I  love  it  so.  Yes.  You 
are  right.  I  do  love  to  be  alone  some- 
times." 

"  If  you  are  awake,  Leduc,  why  don't 
you  say  so  ? "  cried  Saxe  suddenly, 
with  a  fierce  frown. 

Leduc  rolled  over,  blinking  help- 
lessly. 

"  Oui,  oui,  M'sieu,  —  what  time  is  it? 
Leduc —  Sacristi,  mon  pied!  " 

In  spite  of  his  anger,  Saxe  could  not 
refuse  to  re-dress  the  swollen  ankle, 
and  to  his  surprise  the  Countess  put 
away  her  work,  and  helped  him  with 

181 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

something  more  than  mere  handiness. 
He  realized,  however,  with  a  grim 
amusement  at  his  own  folly,  that  the 
bandage  would  have  been  better  had  he 
done  it  alone. 


182 


VI 

"  You  will  laugh  at  me,  —  think  me  an 
old  fool,  —  but  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
anyway,"  Saxe  began,  as  they  left  the 
camp  and  made  their  way  up  the  hill 
toward  Sunset  Ledge. 

She  looked  at  him  in  silent  inquiry, 
in  a  way  he  liked,  for  her  eyes  met  his 
with  perfect  confidence,  and  he  could 
see  the  light  in  their  clear  depths. 

"  This  tree  here,"  he  went  on,  paus- 
ing and  laying  his  hand  on  a  patch  of 
moss  on  the  trunk,  "  is  the  Dream 
Tree. " 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes.  Yonder,  in  the  little  clearing, 
you  can  see  the  Butterfly  Tree.  The 
Wisdom  Tree,  alas,  I  have  not  yet 

'83 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

found,  —  and,  candidly,  I  cannot  say  I 
am  in  a  fair  way  of  finding  it." 

She  laughed.  "  I  fear  you  are  not. 
But  —  do  you  really  love  them  ?  You 
used  to  laugh  at  me  and  call  me  a 
dreamer.  How  you  did  snub  me  at 
first!" 

"  I  was  a  brute.  I  do  really  love 
them,  though,  and  they,  through  you, 
have  taught  me  much.  Last  year,  as  I 
wrote  you,  I  was  restless  and  unhappy 
here;  the  solitude  got  on  my  nerves;  I 
couldn't  sleep.  This  year  the  beauty 
of  it  all  came  home  to  me;  the  quiet 
quieted  me;  I  lived  on  from  day  to 
day  in  a  sort  of  dream,  —  and  then  you 
came." 

"  We  interrupted !     A  charming  in- 
terruption, of  course,  but  still  we  are 
one.     How  small  the  world  is,  that  we 
should  have  come  here!" 
184 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  How  good  the  gods  are ! " 

She  stood  still,  leaning  against  a  tree 
to  rest.  "  Are  they  ?  Are  you  sure  ?  I 
mean,  we  have  met,  and  it  has  been  a 
pleasure  to  us  both,  but  we  have  also 
lost  much."  Her  face  was  serious,  she 
spoke  slowly. 

"What  have  we  lost?" 

"  I  can't  just  explain,  but  I  feel  it.  I 
shall  miss  the  Pessimist!" 

"  But  why  not  keep  him  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  absently.  "  Oh, 
no.  That  is  over  and  gone.  We  never 
could  find  each  other  again,  —  as  we 
were.  Surely  you  understand  that  as 
well  as  I." 

"  You  mean  because  of  what  I  told 
you  this  morning?  But  you  knew  it 
before  I  told  you." 

"  Yes,    I    knew   it  j    it    is   different 


now." 


185 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Saxe  protested.  "I  don't  see  why! 
I  'm  no  boy  to  lose  his  head  and  make 
scenes.  You  can  trust  me,  and  you 
know  it,  or  you  would  n't  be  here." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  gently, 
and  went  on  up  the  difficult  way. 

"  But,  when  you  go  away,  —  you  will 
surely  let  me  write  to  you,  and  you  will 
answer?  "  he  insisted,  as  he  followed. 

"No." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  it  is  to  be  t  bonsoir,'  as 
Leduc  sings." 

"  That  is  not  a  sufficient  reason." 
His  voice  was  dogged,  and  she  turned. 

"  But  it  is !  I  am  the  most  obstinate 
woman  in  the  world.  I  always  do  as  I 
like." 

"  And  what  you  i  like '  is  to  throw 
me  over  when  "  — 

She  turned  again,  her  eyes  cold  this 
186 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

time.  "  There  is  no  question  of  <  throw- 
ing over,'  Dr.  Saxe.  I  have  given  way 
to  you  in  the  matter  of  staying  on  here 
and  taking  up  our  —  acquaintance  where 
it  ended  in  the  letters,  but  I  have  not 
bound  myself  in  any  way  to  write  you, 
or  see  you  again.  We  will  say  no  more 
about  it,  please." 

Saxe  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  he  said  briskly,  as  she  stopped 
again  to  draw  breath:  "  You  are  right, 
Countess,  and  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
have  grown  so  used  to  the  pleasure 
your  letters  have  given  me  that  I  shall 
miss  them  tremendously  at  first,  but  of 
course  I  shall  get  used  to  it,  and  I  am 
very  grateful  to  you  for  giving  me  these 
few  days." 

"  I  shall  miss  the  letters,  too,"  she 
returned,  with  one  of  the  sudden  soften- 
ings that  perplexed  him.  "  I  'm  not 

187 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

saying  I  shall  be  glad  to  —  to  lose  you 
altogether." 

"  Thanks,  you  are  kind." 

They  reached  the  ledge  of  rock,  and 
sat  down.  It  was  early,  and  they  dis- 
cussed for  some  time  the  possibility  of 
Leduc's  being  able  to  start  off  on  the  pil- 
grimage in  three  days,  before  the  spec- 
tacle that  they  had  come  to  see  began. 

"  If  the  old  ruffian  would  tell  me  how 
far  the  place  is,  I  could  judge  better,  but 
I  can't  get  a  word  out  of  him,"  Saxe 
avowed.  "  He  says  t  it  is  n't  so  far,  but 
then  it  is  n't  so  near ! ' 

"  It  is  not  charitable  of  me,  but  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  has  himself 
forgotten  where  it  is !  " 

"  No  —  no.     You  wrong  him  there. 
He  does  know."     Saxe  hesitated  for  a 
minute  and  then  told  her  the  story  of 
the  thirty-one  white  stones. 
188 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Poor 
old  man!  thirty-one  years  is  a  long 
time." 

"  Yes.  Thirty-one  years  ago  I  was 
eleven  years  old,  and  you  —  did  not 
exist!  When  you  were  born,  I  was 
already  a  big  boy  of  thirteen.  When 
is  your  birthday  ?  " 

"  The  6th  of  December." 

She  sat  with  one  arm  around  the  sil- 
very trunk  of  a  young  birch,  her  cheek 
pressed  to  it.  Saxe  realized  that  he 
would  be  sure  to  invent  a  fantastic  name 
for  that  tree. 

She  asked  him  some  questions  about 
his  new  book,  and  he  launched  into  an 
attempted  explanation  of  it,  she  listen- 
ing with  earnest  eyes  and  what  he 
called,  quoting  himself  with  a  smile, 
her  "  intelligent  ignorance."  The  first 
shafts  of  the  sunset  found  him  deep  in 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

metaphysics,  and  he  broke  off  short 
when  her  upraised  hand  led  his  eyes  to 
the  sky. 

As  they  went  back  to  the  camp,  a 
squirrel  darted  down  a  tree  and  across 
their  way,  not  two  feet  in  front  of 
them.  The  Countess  gave  a  little  cry 
of  delight,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Look!" 

But  Saxe  looked  at  her  flushed  face, 
and  felt  suddenly  very  old  and  tired. 
She  was  so  young!  He  determined 
never  to  talk  to  her  of  "  metaphysics  and 
such  stuff  "  again.  He  would  show  her 
things  that  made  her  look  like  that.  He 
wondered  whether  there  were  no  late- 
nesting  birds,  as  there  are  late-bearing 
fruit  trees.  He  knew  she  would  love  a 
bird's  nest  with  eggs  in  it.  And  then,  as 
the  sight  of  the  smoke  rising  among  the 
190 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

trees  told  them  that  they  were  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  camp,  she  said 
suddenly,  — 

"  But  all  that  is  materialistic,  and  you 
are  an  idealist! " 

Saxe  stood  still.     "  I  an  idealist!  " 

"  Yes.  And  you  have  strong  princi- 
ples, which  you  have  no  business  to 
have,  if  you  believe  all  that." 

"Then  a  materialist  has  no  princi- 
ples?" 

"  According  to  Hobbes,  no,"  she  an- 
swered demurely. 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "  Oh,  if  you 
have  read  Hobbes,  I  give  up.  But  after 
all  you  are  wrong  ;  Hobbes  says  i  a 
materialist  can  have  no  morals.'  He 
does  n't  mention  principles.  And  then, 
how  many  men's  principles  agree  with 
their  actions,  Fair  Lady?  Not  many.  I 
mean  men  who  have  passed  their  lives 

191 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

trying  to  think  ?  Do  you  know  anything 
of  Spinoza's  life  ?  " 

"No;  only  that  he  was  a  good  man." 

"  He  was  a  good  man.  We  must  go 
to  supper,  but  first  let  me  tell  you 
that  his  opinions,  his  avowed  principles, 
were  such  that  he  was  excommunicated 
for  blasphemy." 

She  nodded,  going  slowly  down  the 
path,  her  head  bent.  "  I  know,  I  re- 
member." 

"  So,  while  God  knows  I  am  no  ideal- 
ist, admit  that  I  may  have  principles 
and  be  a  decent  sort  of  fellow,  and  yet 
fully  believe  in  my  book!  " 

She  smiled  at  him  in  the  charming 
way  some  women  have  of  smiling  at  a 
man  they  like,  —  as  though  she  knew 
him  much  better  than  he  knew  himself, 
—  and  they  went  on  without  speaking. 


192 


VII 

LEDUC'S  foot  was  better  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  still  too  painful  to  step  on, 
and  Saxe  walked  over  to  the  hotel  to 
tell  the  Countess,  and  bring  her  and  An- 
nette back  for  the  day,  as  they  had  taken 
for  granted  was  to  be  done.  Halfway 
down  the  road,  however,  he  met  young 
Cobb,  alone,  and  learned  that  the  Count- 
ess had  a  bad  headache  and  could  not 
come.  He  gave  the  boy  a  quarter,  and 
went  back  alone,  his  face  set  into  an 
expression  of  immobility  habitual  to 
him  in  moments  of  strong  feeling.  It 
was  a  day  wasted,  and  a  day  with  her 
had  come  to  mean  to  him  a  decade. 
A  boy  of  twenty  could  not  have  been 
more  bitterly  disappointed,  and  more 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

savage  in  his  disappointment.  Leduc, 
however,  saw  nothing  of  this,  and,  when 
Saxe  bandaged  his  foot  again  in  the 
afternoon,  and  pronounced  it  decidedly 
better,  the  old  man  burst  into  a  naive 
expression  of  surprise. 

"  It  is  that  to  be  an  American !  The 
sooner  I  am  able  to  go,  the  sooner 
M'sieu  loses  Mademoiselle,  and  yet  he 
urges  me  to  go !  He  says  my  foot  is 
better.  A  Frenchman  would  swear  I 
have  blood-poisoning." 

"  Not  every  Frenchman,  mon  vieux. 
There  are  a  few  decent  ones  among 
them,  you  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing." Then  he  told  Leduc  that  on  the 
third  day  following  he  was  to  take  his 
wife  and  go  to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche. 
Leduc,  serious  as  he  always  became  at 
any  mention  of  Le  Mioche,  protested 
feebly. 

194 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"But  Annette  has  a  right  to  go  to 
it,"  insisted  Saxe. 

"  She  has  no  right.     She  left  me." 

"  Because  you  ill-treated  her." 

"  I  struck  her  now  and  then  when 
I  'd  been  drinking  whiskey,  —  I  was  n't 
used  to  whiskey, —  and  I  knew  a  pretty 
face  when  I  saw  it." 

"  Nonsense,  Leduc.  She  was  a  good 
woman,  and  she  could  n't  stand  your  — 
general  slackness.  You  are  to  take  her 
to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche  on  Monday; 
do  you  understand  me?  " 

"  It 's  very  far,  M'sieu,  and  she  is  an 
old  woman." 

"  Monday  you  are  to  take  her,  or  — 
no  dog,  and  no  present." 

Then  savagely  satisfied  at  having  has- 
tened a  day  he  might  well  have  put  off, 
Saxe  went  for  a  long  tramp,  reaching 
home  after  sundown,  tired  and  hungry. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Leduc,  unable  to  sulk,  was  as  gay  as 
a  lark,  singing  snatches  of  "  La  vie  est 
vaine  "  to  himself,  and  expressing  his 
convictions  that  after  all  it  would  be 
best  to  take  Annette  to  the  grave  Mon- 
day and  have  it  over  with.  He  could 
n't  tell  how  long  it  would  take.  "  Cela 
depend  de  ses  jambes,"  he  said  with  a 
chuckle.  It  was  n't  so  near,  but  then 
it  was  n't  so  far. 

The  forest  was  like  fairyland  that 
night  in  the  moonlight.  Saxe,  tired  as 
he  was,  could  not  sit  still.  Half  an 
hour  after  supper  he  rose  and  started 
off  restlessly  through  the  wood.  He 
had  a  good  voice,  uncultivated  but 
sweet,  and  sang  as  he  tramped  through 
the  lacy  shadows  of  the  beeches.  It 
seemed  as  though  she  must  be  near,  as 
though  he  caught  glimpses  of  a  light 
gown,  here  and  there,  among  the  mossy 
196 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

trunks.  "  Ich  gehe  nicht  schnell,  ich 
eile  nicht."  He  stumbled  on  a  root 
and  saved  himself  with  difficulty  from 
a  fall. 

"  Ich  gehe  hin  zu  der  schoensten 
Frau"- 

And  there  she  was,  as  if  in  answer  to 
his  thoughts,  as  happens  to  most  peo- 
ple once  in  their  lifetime.  She  stood 
quite  still,  holding  under  her  chin  the 
light  scarf  that  hid  her  hair. 

"  '  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches ! ' " 

Saxe  took  her  hands,  kissed  them 
both,  and  then  stood  with  them  in  his. 

"  You  are  here  —  alone  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  not  five  minutes  from 
the  hotel." 

"  Then  I  have  gone  around  the  vil- 
lage, and  come  up  beyond  the  high- 
road!" 

"Yes." 

197 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  I  love  you." 

"Hush!" 

"  You  know  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  not  angry  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Look  at  me." 

Gathering  her  hands  into  one  of  his, 
with  the  other  he  tilted  back  her  chin, 
forcing  her  to  look  into  his  eyes.  "  I 
love  you  this  way,  —  and  you  have  not 
a  scrap  of  feeling  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  like  you  very  much,"  she  an- 
swered quietly,  not  moving. 

"You  like  me  very  much.  Then, 
let  me  kiss  you  —  once." 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  don't  wish  to  " — 

Her  eyes,  unwavering,  were  fixed  'on 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

his;  the  lace  scarf  slipped  back,  but 
she  did  not  move.  Slowly  he  let  her 
go,  and  stood  looking  at  her,  while  she 
rearranged  her  scarf,  and  once  more 
gathered  it  under  her  chin. 

"  You  are  a  very  daring  woman,"  he 
said  after  a  pause. 

"Why?" 

"  Ah,  why ! "  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  laughed.  "  Come,  it  is  getting 
late,  let  me  take  you  back  to  the  hotel. 
How  is  your  headache  ?  " 

"  Better,  thank  you,  but  you  must  n't 
take  me  back  to  the  hotel;  it  would 
scandalize  the  good  people  there,  and  I 
know  the  way." 

He  took  out  his  watch.  "After  all, 
it  is  early,  —  a  little  after  nine.  Sit 
down  here  and  talk  to  me.  You  need 
n't  be  afraid;  I  shan't  make  an  ass  of 
myself  again." 

199 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

She  sat  down  on  a  log.  "  I  am  not 
afraid." 

"  I  know  you  're  not,  and  —  I  won- 
der why  ?  " 

"  There  are  two  reasons.  One  is 
that  you  are  a  gentleman  —  in  the  real 
sense  of  the  word;  the  other  that  — 
that"  — 

"  That  you  are  in  no  danger  of  losing 
your  head."  He  laughed. 

"  Of  course  I  am  in  no  danger,  but 
I  did  n't  mean  that.  |I  mean  that  a 
woman  can  always  control  a  man,  — 
if  she  wishes  to."l 

frlA-  ft***  >WVvstAA,  — 

He  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  how  young 
you  are,  how  young!" 

"Am  I  so  young?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  her  face 

worn  and  pale   in  the  moonlight.     "  I 

am  old,"  she  went  on  slowly,  her  chin 

in  her  hand,  "  and  you  are  young.     I 

200 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

am  cold,  and  calculating,  and  slow,  and 
you  are  impetuous  and  hot-headed  "  — 

Saxe  sighed.  "  That  is  what  love 
does  to  a  man.  Not  that  I  did  lose 
my  head,  dear  child.  If  I  had!  You 
were  almost  in  my  arms.  I  could  have 
kissed  you  "  — 

"But  you  didn't." 

"No,  because  I  knew  you  didn't 
want  me  to.  If  you  had  wanted  me  to 
with  your  heart,  however  much  you 
might  have  protested  with  your  lips  "  — 

She  laughed  outright.  "Baby!  As 
if  you  would  have  known." 

Saxe  watched  her  gravely.  "  Ah, 
yes,  I  should  have  known.  And  if  you 
had —  Well — after  all,  one  has  only 
one  life  to  live,  empty  and  dry  enough 
at  best,  as  a  rule  "  — 

"  Ta,  ta,  ta,  —  the  morals  of  a  mate- 
rialist! Now  I  am  going.  Good-night." 

201 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  And  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  we  are  coming  to  din- 
ner, if  you  will  have  us." 

"  Are  you  angry  ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  little 
gracious  shake  of  the  head.  "  No.  It 
was  my  own  fault." 

"  Your  own  fault !  "  repeated  Saxe, 
taking  off  his  glasses  in  his  bewilder- 
ment. 

"Yes.  ISuch  things  are  always  the 
fault  of  the  woman."  ^  GlAX/I^M/4  ^ 

"  It  was  n't  your  fault,  dear  chil4,  and 
your  theory  is  wrong." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  answered :  — 

"  No,  my  theory  is  right.  I  am  much 
younger  than  you,  but  I  live  in  the 
world,  and  I  know  it.  \  A  man  loses  his 
head,  possibly,  quite  against  the  wo- 
man's will,  but  —  she  should  not  have 
let  him  get  to  that  point."  / 


202 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  And  you  mean  that  you  will  never 
let  me  get  there  "  — 

"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

She  sped  away  into  the  denser 
shadow,  leaving  him  looking  after  her. 


203 


VIII 

THE  next  morning,  when  the  Countess 
arrived  at  the  camp,  Saxe  met  her,  with 
a  tin  of  worms  in  one  hand,  and  two 
bamboo  fishing-rods  over  his  shoulder. 

"  You  will  have  to  earn  your  dinner 
to-day,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with 
her.  "  Nothing  but  salt  pork  in  camp, 
and  Leduc  insists  on  fried  fish." 

"  Oh,  how  nice!  It  is  cloudy,  too;  so 
much  the  better  for  '  bites,'  is  n't  it  ?  " 

She  hurried  on  to  say  good-morning 
to  the  invalid,  who  was  paring  potatoes 
with  a  languid  air,  and  then,  leaving 
Annette  to  prepare  the  meal,  joined 
Saxe  at  the  water's  edge. 

He  had  been  prepared  for  frank  good- 
comradeship,  and  had  summoned  up  as 
204 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

near  its  counterpart  as  in  man  lies,  so 
the  morning  passed  busily  and  gayly, 
without  allusions  or  awkwardness.  The 
sport  was  good,  the  light  breeze  agree- 
able, and  the}7  went  back  to  camp,  tired 
and  hungry,  with  a  big  string  of  fish,  to 
find  Annette  about  to  try  her  hand  at 
that  test  of  skill,  an  omelette. 

While  Leduc  cleaned  the  fish,  the 
Countess  and  Saxe  made  coffee,  and 
an  hour  later,  Leduc  was  once  more 
asleep,  Annette  busy  washing  dishes  in 
the  cabin,  and  the  other  two  practically 
alone. 

They  sat  in  silence,  she  building  a 
little  pyre  of  pine-cones,  he  idly  watch- 
ing her  hands.  Suddenly  she  looked  up 
and  their  eyes  met.  A  sudden  trouble 
filled  hers,  and  they  darkened  for  the 
first  time  with  embarrassment  He  felt 
the  blood  sing  in  his  ears. 

205 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  You  are  not  angry  ? "  he  said,  al- 
most in  a  whisper. 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  warning 
glance  at  Leduc  that  nearly  brought  a 
cry  of  delight  to  Saxe's  lips. 

He  rose.  "  Come,"  and  she  followed 
him  without  a  word. 

"  That  old  wretch  is  playing  pos- 
sum," he  said,  with  an  unsteady  laugh. 
"  I  will  row  you  over  to  the  water- 
lilies." 

She  took  her  seat  in  the  boat,  and 
then,  as  the  sun  fell  on  her,  put  up  her 
hand  to  her  head.  "  My  hat!  " 

"  Take  mine."  He  handed  her  his, 
and  she  crushed  it  down  on  her  fore- 
head and  smiled  at  him. 

He  rowed  with  quite  unnecessary 
vigor,  telling  her  of  Leduc's  consent  to 
start  Monday  morning. 

"  You  told  me  that  before." 
206 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

He  laughed.  "  Did  I  ?  I  'm  sorry. 
Now,  then  "  — 

They  had  reached  the  patch  of  pond- 
lilies,  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  worked 
in  silence,  pulling  the  languid  white 
blossoms  for  her,  and  wiping  their 
stems  in  his  handkerchief. 

As  he  got  out  of  the  boat  he  re- 
marked, laughing,  "  Oh,  what  a  good 
boy  am  I !  " 

"  You  are,  indeed,"  she  returned,  tak- 
ing the  lilies  he  had  held. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  And  you  think  all  the  credit  is  due 
to  you  ?  "  He  smiled  at  her  quizzically. 

"Oh,  no;  not  at  all." 

"  Why  not,  if  the  blame  was  yours  — 
last  night?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  It  is  n't  fair  to 
laugh  at  me.  I  only  try  to  be  *  square.' ' 

207 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  And  you  are  square,  Winifred.  No 
woman  ever  was  more  so.  Only  — 
there  are  circumstances  when  it  is  very 
easy  to  be  square." 

"  That,  of  course,  is  true,"  she  an- 
swered lightly.  "  Good  heavens !  what 
time  is  it?  Annette  is  lighting  the 
fire!  We  eat  as  much  as  people  in  a 
German  novel,  but  even  ive  can't  be 
going  to  eat  again  already." 

"  No,  it  is  only  five.  Now,  how  am 
I  going  to  amuse  your  ladyship  for  the 
rest  of  the  day?  " 

She  considered.  "  I  don't  know. 
Read  aloud  to  me." 

"  Nothing  to  read." 

"  Not  even  a  Greek  Testament,  or  a 
Horace?" 

"  Not  even  those  general  favorites." 

"  Have  you  literally  not  a  book  with 
you  ?  "  she  asked  curiously. 
208 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  have  two  of  my  own 
great  works  that  I  am  supposed  to  be 
revising,  and  '  Uncle  Remus,'  and  — 
Browning's  '  Shorter  Poems.' ' 

"Oh,  ' Uncle  Remus,'  by  all  means. 
Read  me  the  <Tar  Baby.' " 

"Rather  than  'Cristina,' — or  'The 
Last  Ride  Together  '  ? " 

"  Much  rather,"  she  answered 
promptly,  sitting  down  and  demolishing 
her  pyre  of  cones  at  a  blow. 

Saxe  laughed.  "Oh,  you  baby!  You 
are  afraid  to  face  the  music." 

She  looked  up  serenely.  "  What 
music  ?  " 

Saxe  fetched  the  book,  and  read  to 
her  for  over  an  hour.  She  was  too  tired 
to  go  to  see  the  sunset,  and  busied  her- 
self helping  Leduc  make  johnny-cake, 
greatly  to  his  delight. 

After  supper  young  Cobb  appeared, 

209 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

to  ask  whether  Leduc  or  Saxe  would 
mind  driving  the  two  ladies  home,  as 
he  was  on  his  way  to  a  party  and  would 
be  unable  to  come  until  late.  He  was 
very  splendid  in  a  red  cravat,  his  hair 
glistening  and  fragrant  with  pomade. 
The  horse  was  hitched  to  a  tree,  and 
knew  the  way  back,  even  if  they  did  n't. 

"  What  time  will  the  party  be  over  ?  " 
asked  Saxe. 

"  'Bout  half  past  ten." 

It  was  decided  that  young  Cobb 
should  come  back  by  the  camp  and 
drive  himself,  Leduc  being  lame,  and 
Saxe  apparently  afraid  of  horses. 

"  He  ain't  got  no  bad  habits,  except 
biting,"  the  boy  protested,  half  hurt. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  bitten,"  Saxe 
explained  gravely,  and  Cobb  went  his 
way,  muttering  some  sarcasm  about 
Bill's  not  biting  with  his  hind  legs. 

2IO 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  compati- 
ble with  '  squareness  '  to  take  a  walk  in 
the  moonlight  ?  "  Saxe  asked. 

"  Perfectly.  Nothing  could  be  more 
unconventional  in  every  way  than  my 
stay  up  here,  —  a  walk  or  two  in  the 
moonlight  can  make  no  difference." 

Leduc  and  Annette  were  in  the  cabin. 

"  But  —  the  squareness  ?  "  persisted 
Saxe  teasingly.  "  Don't  you  think 
walks  in  the  moonlight  with  you  may 
be  rather  hard  on  me?  " 

She  laughed.  "  That  is  your  look- 
out. If  you  choose  to  risk  it,  I  am 
ready." 

Saxe  laughed  too.  "  Oh,  I  will  risk 
it.  I  am,  you  know,  as  irresponsible  as 
a  baby;  if  I  should  chance  to  misbehave, 
it  would  be  entirely  your  fault." 

"  Yes.  But  —  you  will  not  k  chance 
to  misbehave.' ' 

211 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

They  struck  off  through  the  pines, 
and  soon  came  out  on  another  part  of 
the  old  logging-camp  road,  Saxe  whis- 
tling "  Bonsoir  "  under  his  breath.  This 
part  of  the  road  was  sandy  and  easier 
walking.  They  went  on  quickly  through 
the  mottled  shadows.  Suddenly  Saxe 
exclaimed:  — 

"  Age  tells  on  different  people  in  such 
different  ways !  I  hardly  realized  how 
old  I  am,  until  I  saw  how  hopelessly 
you  bowled  me  over." 

"  Is  that  a  sign  of  age  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  but  there  was  unde- 
niably something  of  —  senility  in  my 
going  to  bits  and  making  such  an  ass 
of  myself.  Still  —  it  was  rather  plea- 
sant, so  long  as  it  was  n't  my  fault.  You 
are  right  about  that,  by  the  way,  though 
you  are  young  to  have  learned  it.  A 
man  never  goes  any  farther  than  a 

212 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

woman  lets  him  —  except,  possibly,  in 
what  the  poets  call  a  great  passion.  A 
great  passion  is  a  rare  bird  nowadays, 
however,  I  imagine.  Our  lives  are  little, 
our  aims  are  little,  and  our  loves  are 
little." 

He  paused,  and  then,  she  not  answer- 
ing, went  on  reflectively:  "Or  rather, 
not  little,  but  fleeting.  Confoundedly 
fleeting." 

"  That  is  certainly  true,"  she  agreed, 
as  they  left  the  road  and  went  down  a 
steep  incline  toward  the  little  river  she 
had  seen  from  Sunset  Ledge. 

"  True,  and  —  fortunate.  *  We  for- 
get, not  because  we  will,  but  because 
we  must,'  —  Arnold,  is  n't  it  ?  Humili- 
ating, but  a  tremendous  comfort.  If  I 
had  n't  believed  it,  I  should  have  been 
pretty  desperate  last  night." 

"  I  knew  it,  and  that  is  why  I  have 

213 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

been  able  to  take  it  all  so  calmly,  and 
—  to  go  about  with  you  in  this  way." 

"  Ah,  you  knew  it.  Women  are 
quick-witted.  I  wonder  if  you  knew 
how  much  I  did  care  —  last  night?" 

"I  think  I  did." 

He  looked  at  her  profile  sharply  as 
they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  ra- 
vine. 

"I  care  now,  too,  you  know;  even 
nowadays  it  does  n't  go  quite  as  quickly 
as  that "  — 

"  I  know.  You  care  a  little  less  than 
yesterday;  to-morrow  you  will  care  a 
little  less  than  to-day  "  — 

"  Yes.  Though  I  like  you  more  than 
any  woman  I  ever  knew,  and  think  that 
we  could  be  the  best  of  friends.  Take 
care !  "  he  broke  off,  "  those  stones  are 
very  slippery." 

Before  them  lay  the  plantation  of 
214 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

birch-trees,  beautiful  beyond  descrip- 
tion in  the  moonlight. 

"  Could  we  get  just  within  the  for- 
est?" she  asked;  "we  can't  half  see 
them  here.  One  must  look  up  at  the 
light  through  them;  it  is  the  only  way 
to  see  birches." 

They  crossed  the  little  river  on  a  row 
of  stepping-stones,  climbed  the  bank, 
and  reached  the  trees.  She  walked 
slowly,  her  head  bent  back,  stopping 
now  and  then. 

"Hush!  One  can  hear  the  wind. 
In  the  pine  wood  I  did  n't  know  there 
was  any  wind." 

He  listened.  "  Yes.  It  is  very  pretty. 
So  are  you  very  pretty,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so." 

She  laughed.  "  Certainly  I  don't 
mind,  if  you  really  think  so." 

"  I  do,  and  just  as  an  observation, 

215 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

unbacked  by  any  intention,  I  may  add 
that  I  'd  like  to  kiss  you,  under  your 
chin!" 

There  was  a  kind  of  labored  imper- 
tinence in  his  tone,  at  which  she  turned, 
her  eyebrows  lifted. 

Then,  as  he  drew  aside  the  sweeping 
branches  of  a  young  birch  and  she 
passed  him,  she  stopped  short  with  a 
little  cry. 

"  A  grave !  " 

"  The  grave  of  Le  Mioche !  " 


216 


IX 

THERE  was  a  pause.  Then  she  turned, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  See  the  poor  white  stones !  " 

Saxe  nodded. 

The  moonlight,  circled  by  the  shad- 
ows of  four  large  birches,  fell  full  on 
the  little  mound.  There  was  no  head- 
stone, nothing  but  the  smooth  white 
stones  that  surrounded  it,  nearly  all  of 
them  half  hidden  in  the  long  grass. 

The  Countess  knelt  down  and  looked 
at  it  closely. 

"  Oh,  how  pitiful !  Think  of  his  com- 
ing every  year  with  one  of  these  poor, 
ridiculous  stones.  Poor  old  man !  " 

"  It  is  the  more  pitiful  when  you  con- 
sider that  he  was  n't  old  at  all  when  he 

217 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

began,  —  that  he  was  living  a  bad  life 
among  bad  men."  He  sat  down  by 
her,  and  took  off  his  hat.  "  And  every 
year  he  had  at  least  his  one  good  day." 

Her  shoulder  touched  his,  and  she 
leaned  against  it,  unnoticing. 

"  It  has  been  his  religion,  —  and  who 
knows  that  it  has  not  been  a  good  one  ? 
He  has  prayed  here.  No  Catholic  ever 
quite  forgets  to  pray." 

"  No.  But  why  would  n't  he  tell  ?  " 
she  asked,  stroking  the  grass  gently. 

Saxe  hesitated,  and  then,  closing  his 
hand  over  hers,  answered  in  a  low 
voice,  "  I  suppose  because  it  has  been 
his  most  precious  secret  for  so  many 
years;  one  hates  to  give  one's  most  pre- 
cious secret  to  —  some  one  one  does  n't 
love."\ 

"  Yes."    She  did  not  move;  her  hand 
rested  quietly  under  his. 
218 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"And  then,"  he  went  on,  "I  think 
he  is  ashamed,  —  ashamed  of  his  real 
feeling  about  the  little  dead  child,  — 
ashamed  of  his  sentimentality;  men  are 

fools "  yfytodj*  *2*X'  ***"  ***** 

roois. 

She  did  not  answer.     The  trees  rus- 

U  i  J 

tied  softly;  a  cloud  hid  the  moon  for 

a  few  seconds,  then  floated  off  again; 
and  Le  Mioche  lay  under  his  thirty-one 
stones. 

"  Dear,"  said  Saxe  suddenly,  "  I  lied 
to  you  on  our  way  here.  It  was  all 
false,  every  word  of  it." 

"  I  know." 

"  I  love  you  once  and  for  all  —  shall 
always  love  you.  I  've  no  right  to,  but 
I  can't  help  it,  and  it  is  in  a  way  the  best 
of  me.  I  was  ashamed  of  it,  like  a 
fool." 

"  Like  Leduc." 

"  Like  Leduc.  It  —  hurt  me  to  know 

219 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

that  I  could  care  so  without  you  caring 
a  —  hang." 

"  My  caring  would  only  make  mat- 
ters worse,"  she  said  dreamily. 

"  Yes,  of  course  it  would  only  make 
matters  worse,  in  one  way,  and  I  think 
I  can  honestly  say  I  am  glad  that  you 
do  not  care." 

"  If  you  can  say  that,  you  are  a  very 
good  man." 

Her  hand  tightened  a  little  on  his. 
Putting  his  arm  around  her,  he  drew  her 
close  to  him. 

"  I  am  not  a  very  good  man.  It 
is  one  side  of  me  that  can  say  that, 
dear.  The  other  side  says  —  My  God,  I 
would  give  my  right  hand  to  have  you 
care!" 

"  That  is  the  worse  side." 

"As  you  like.     You  are  a  strange 


woman." 


220 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Am  I  ?     In  what  way  ?  " 

Le  Mioche  was  forgotten. 

"  You  know  what  I  am  feeling  at 
this  minute,  and  you  sit  here  in  my  arms 
as  calmly  as  though  I  were  your  grand- 
father! " 

"  That  is  because  I  do  not  care,  I 
suppose." 

"  Yes.     Tell  me,  are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"  Sorry  —  that  you  care  for  me,  or 
that  I  do  not  care  for  you  ?  " 

"  Sorry  for  me.  Have  you  a  heart  in 
your  body  ?  " 

He  had  not  tightened  his  hold  of  her 
by  a  hair's-breadth,  but  his  voice  had 
changed. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry,  if  you  are  unhappy. 
I  have  a  heart,"  she  answered  in  a 
matter-of-fact  manner. 

He  released  her,  and  jumping  up 
suddenly,  walked  to  the  opposite  side 

221 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

of  the  little  inclosure,  leaning  his  head 
against  one  of  the  birches. 

She  sat  still  for  several  seconds,  and 
then  rose  and  followed  him.  He  did  not 
move,  and  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't!" 

He  turned,  half  laughing.  "  I  'm  not 
crying,  if  that 's  what  you  mean." 

With  a  sudden  movement,  she  took 
off  his  glasses  and  turned  his  face  to 
hers.  "  Why  do  you  feel  so  badly  ?  " 

"Why?  Because  I  am  a  man,  and 
I  love  you,  and  I  want  you,  and  I  can't 
have  you.  Incidentally,  I  can't  see  you 
without  my  glasses." 

"I  know;  never  mind.  Listen.  Is 
it  only  that,  or  because  I  do  not  love 
you?" 

He  bent  toward  her,  half  closing  his 
near-sighted  eyes  as  he  tried  to  get  her 
face  within  focus. 

222 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  What  is  the  use  of  talking  about 
it  ?  "  he  retorted  impatiently.  "  It  may 
be  fun  for  you  to  vivisect  my  feelings, 
but  it  is  not  fun  for  me.  You  don't  love 
me,  and  when  I  'm  sane,  I  'm  glad  of  it. 
But  you  torment  me  beyond  endur- 
ance. What  do  you  think  I  am  made 
of?" 

He  reached  for  his  eyeglasses,  but 
she  held  them  tight. 

"  No,  wait.  What  do  you  think  /  'm 
made  of  ? " 

Saxe  laughed.  "  You !  Ice  and  im- 
peccability." 

"  Then  it  has  n't  occurred  to  you  that 
I  might  care  too." 

He  stared  at  her  stupidly.  "  You 
care  too!  You  never  said  so." 

"  No,  I  never  said  so." 

"  And  you  certainly  have  not  done 
anything  to  make  me  think  you  cared." 

223 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Vaguely,  as  in  a  mist,  he  saw  her 
face.  Without  speaking  he  opened  her 
hand  and  put  on  the  eyeglasses  that  dis- 
pelled the  mist. 

"  Then —  you  do  care." 

"  Yes." 

She  bent  her  face  to  his  arm  and  stood 
there  motionless.  When  she  looked  up, 
she  was  very  pale. 

Saxe  took  her  hands,  as  he  had  done 
the  night  before,  and  kissed  them.  He 
was  utterly  bewildered,  and  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  about.  The  feeling  that 
had  made  him  tremble  a  few  minutes 
before  had  gone. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  It  is  late." 

"Yes?  Oh,  Le  Mioche,  Le  Mi- 
oche!" 

With  an  abandon  that  half  frightened 
him,  she  flung  herself  on  the  ground 
224 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

and  spread  her  arms  out  over  the  nar- 
row grave.  There  was,  in  its  perfect 
spontaneity,  nothing  theatrical  in  the 
act;  it  expressed  her  loneliness,  hope- 
lessness, her  longing  to  take  something 
to  her  aching  heart.  Saxe  knew  all  this 
as  he  watched  her,  immovable.  Le 
Mioche  had  been  dead  for  more  years 
than  she  had  lived,  yet  at  that  minute 
he  was  a  child,  an  armful,  to  her.  The 
man  knelt  and  raised  her,  holding  her 
gently,  her  head  thrown  back  against 
his  shoulder.  "  Dear  heart,"  he  said, 
using  the  quaint  phrase  gravely,  as 
though  he  originated  it.  She  lay  quite 
passive  for  a  minute,  and  then  drawing 
herself  away,  rose,  and  stood  uncon- 
sciously smoothing  her  ruffled  hair. 

"  We  must  go." 

«  Yes." 

They  walked  slowly  away,  over  the 

325 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

stepping-stones,  up  the  hill,  his  arm 
about  her  shoulders.  As  they  went 
down  the  next  slope,  it  grew  darker,  the 
moon  having  slipped  below  a  bright 
cloud.  Once  she  stumbled,  and  as  she 
clung  to  him  to  regain  her  balance,  he 
caught  her  suddenly  to  him,  bending 
his  head. 

Instead  of  her  face,  her  hands  met 
his  cheeks  in  the  darkness  and  pushed 
him  gently  away. 

"  No,  dear." 

"Just  once!" 

"  No.  Never.  I  told  you  because 
it  seemed  fairer,  but  you  must  not  kiss 
me."  They  went  on  in  silence,  and 
the  next  moment  the  camp-fire  glowed 
through  the  dark  pine-trunks. 


226 


X 


SAXE  slept  little  that  night.  At  length, 
toward  morning,  tired  of  his  hard  cot, 
he  dressed  and  threw  himself  down  on 
a  blanket  underthe  beech-tree.  Through 
the  branches  the  sky  gleamed  coldly,  no 
color  had  as  yet  come  to  it;  the  birds 
were  still  asleep;  it  was  the  quietest 
hour  of  the  twenty-four.  Leduc  would 
sleep  for  hours  yet,  his  cabin  hermet- 
ically sealed.  Saxe  rolled  over  on  his 
back  and  something  hard  hurt  his  head. 
He  turned  down  the  blanket  and  found 
the  little  heap  of  pine-cones  with  which 
Winifred  had  played  the  day  before. 
She  loved  him.  The  tumult  in  his  brain 
was  such  that  he  did  not  know  whether 
he  was  happy  or  in  despair.  She  was 

227 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

going  away,  but  she  loved  him.  A  bird 
chirped  in  the  tree  above  him.  The 
light  in  the  cabin  went  out,  exhausted; 
Saxe  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what 
the  atmosphere  in  the  little  room  must 
be.  Suddenly  he  realized  that  all  the 
birds  in  the  world  were  singing,  that 
he  had  been  asleep,  and  that  the  sun 
was  up. 

Tired  and  aching  all  over,  he  fetched 
a  towel  and  went  for  a  swim,  after 
which  a  stiff  drink  of  whiskey  sent  him 
into  a  profound  sleep  that  lasted  until 
Leduc  awoke  him  by  hobbling  into 
the  tent  and  calling  him.  It  was  eight 
o'clock,  and  Leduc  had  been  afraid 
M'sieu  might  have  died  in  his  sleep. 
That  sometimes  happens.  Breakfast 
was  ready,  and  Leduc's  foot  was  better. 
After  breakfast,  Leduc  would  have 
something  to  tell  M'sieu. 
228 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Before  they  had  finished  breakfast, 
however,  young  Cobb  came  in  with  a 
note.  Saxe  opened  it 

DEAR  DR.  SAXE,  —  I  am  going  away 
to-day.  Annette  will  stay  as  long  as 
she  likes,  and  then  join  me  in  New 
York.  You  will  understand,  and  for- 
give me.  Good-by, —  and  God  bless 
you. 

"  There 's  an  answer,  she  said,"  an- 
nounced Cobb,  eating  a  piece  of  Leduc's 
fried  pork.  "  I  c'n  wait." 

Saxe  went  into  his  tent  and  let  down 
the  flap.  The  note  he  sent  back  was 
shorter  than  hers. 

DEAR  COUNTESS,  —  You  know  best. 
I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  much  to  bless 
you  for.  R.  S. 

229 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

It  was  over,  then,  he  thought,  reso- 
lutely finishing  his  breakfast.  It  had  to 
come  to  this  end,  and  after  a  bit  the 
relief  would  follow.  He  lit  a  pipe  and 
stretched  himself  out  under  a  tree,  as 
he  had  done  every  day  since  he  had 
been  there. 

Leduc  fussed  about,  grumbling  over 
his  foot,  singing,  whistling,  carrying 
things  to  and  from  the  cabin.  Every- 
thing was  just  as  usual,  apparently. 
When  Saxe  was  halfway  through  his 
second  pipe,  the  old  man  came  and  sat 
down  by  him. 

"  Will  M'sieu  be  so  good  and  look  at 
my  foot?" 

"  Yes,"  grunted  Saxe. 

Leduc  pulled  off  the  slit  boot,  and  dis- 
played a  yellow  woolen  stocking  with 
neither  heel  nor  toe. 

"  Did  she  find  the  socks  ?  "  asked  Saxe. 
230 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  No,  M'sieu.     She  gave  me  up." 

Saxe  pulled  off  the  sock,  and  pro- 
nounced the  foot  well  enough  for  mod- 
erate use.  Suddenly  he  remembered. 
"  Quite  well  enough  for  you  to  walk 
to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche,"  he  added 
sharply. 

Leduc  started.  "  It  is  not  so  far,  but 
it  is  not  so  near,"  he  stammered  in 
French. 

"  Oh,  damn !  I  tell  you  I  know  all 
about  it,  Leduc.  I  Ve  seen  it.  I  know 
just  where  it  is." 

The  old  man  flushed,  a  slow  red  that 
burned  painfully  through  his  brown 
skin.  "  M'sieu  knows,  —  M'sieu  has 
seen  "  — 

"  Yes.  The  white  stones  are  very 
pretty,  mon  vieux." 

Leduc  sat  without  moving,  the  ragged 
sock  loose  in  his  hands.  "  The  white 

231 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

stones,  —  M'sieu   likes   them?     M'sieu 
did  not  laugh  ?  " 

"Why  should  I  laugh,  Leduc?  " 

"  Thirty-one  years  is  a  long  time.  I 
was  young  then,  I  am  old  now,"  the  old 
man  answered  in  French,  as  he  drew 
on  the  sock.  "No  one  here  knows; 
I  have  never  told;  they  would  have 
mocked  me.  Pauv'  Mioche!  " 

His  brilliant  blue  eyes  were  dimmed 
with  tears  that  did  not  fall.  Saxe  had 
seen  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  but 
these  were  different.  After  a  pause  the 
younger  man  said  gently :  — 

"  Why  would  n't  you  show  Annette  ? 
And  why  did  you  pretend  it  was  so  far  ?  " 

Leduc  laughed  aloud.  " l  Not  so 
near,  but  not  so  far! '  She  would  have 
found  it  not  so  near,  if  I  had  taken 
her,  for  I  meant  to  go  to  it  by  way  of 
Everett." 
232 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  But  Everett  is  sixty  miles  from 
here." 

"  Yes.  I  would  have  taken  her  by 
train  to  West  Garfield,  then  to  Everett, 
and  back  by  train  as  far  as  Clinton. 
Then  we  'd  have  hired  a  wagon" —  He 
broke  off,  smiling  in  delight  at  his  clever 
scheme. 

"  You  had  no  right  to  do  such  a  thing, 
and  I  won't  have  it;  do  you  hear  me?" 

Leduc  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
rose  slowly.  "  Eh,  mon  Dieu,  I  had 
given  it  up.  She  would  have  spoiled  it 
all.  She  'd  have  cut  the  grass  and  put 
up  a  gravestone,  and  cried  over  the 
mound.  It  is  my  grave,  I  tell  you!  I 
tended  it  for  years  while  she  was  in 
France,  /never  forgot  it.  Wherever 
I  was,  I  came  back  every  year  to  put  a 
stone  on  it.  It  is  n't  hers,  and  she  shan't 
go  to  it." 

233 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

There  was  a  certain  dignity  in  his 
selfishness  that  appealed  to  Saxe. 

"  You  will  have  to  take  her,  though," 
he  said  sympathetically. 

Leduc  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height  and  looked  down  at  the  man  in 
whose  hands  were,  so  to  say,  dogs  and 
presents  of  money. 

"  No,  M'sieu,"  he  said,  relapsing  into 
his  half-breed  dialect.  "  Leduc  not  have 
to.  Leduc  going  away." 

"  Going  away!  " 

"  Oui,  M'sieu.  Leduc  has  been  think- 
ing, and  he  is  going  away  north." 

"But  that  is  nonsense.  In  the  first 
place,  I  could  take  Annette  to  the  grave 
if  I  chose.  Your  going  can't  change 
that." 

The  old  man's  face  twitched  sud- 
denly. "  M'sieu  will  not  do  that 


234 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES' 

Surely  M'sieu  will  not  do  that!     It  is 
all  I  have." 

Saxe  hesitated,  and  then,  rising  sud- 
denly, held  out  his  hand.  "  Look  here, 
Leduc.  I  promise  not  to  tell,  if  you 
promise  not  to  go." 

"Not  tell?" 

"  No.  I  '11  not  tell,  if  you  '11  stay  until 
to-morrow." 

After  an  instant's  deliberation  Leduc 
promised,  and  Saxe  went  off  on  his  sud- 
denly conceived  errand. 

He  found  Annette  at  the  hotel,  and 
learned  that  her  mistress  was  to  go  by 
the  afternoon  train,  and  was  now  in  the 
wood  across  the  road,  taking  a  walk. 
Saxe  found  her  where  he  had  known  she 
would  be,  seated  on  the  log  where  he 
and  she  had  sat  a  few  nights  before. 

She  was  very  pale  and  looked  worn, 
as  if  from  a  sleepless  night. 

235 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"Do  not  scold  me  for  coming,"  he 
began  at  once.  "  I  am  not  here  on  my 
account.  You  must  not  go  until  to- 


morrow." 


236 


XI 


"  I  REMEMBER,"  began  the  Countess, 
gazing  dreamily  into  the  glowing  ashes, 
"  a  story  that  Annette  —  '  Nana,'  I  called 
her  then  —  used  to  tell  me  when  I  was 
very  little." 

No  one  spoke;  no  one  had  spoken 
for  some  time.  Something,  possibly  the 
blending  of  the  moonlight  with  the  fire- 
light, had  quieted  them  all,  and  then  the 
pines,  stirred  by  a  soft  overhead  wind, 
were  more  than  usually  articulate. 

"  It  was  the  story  of  a  little  boy,"  she 
went  on  after  a  pause,  her  hands  clasped 
about  her  knees.  "  She  never  told  me 
his  name.  One  day  when  I  was  ill,  she 
showed  me  a  curl  of  his  hair  in  a  locket, 
—  such  yellow  hair,  and  so  silky." 

237 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Leduc  looked  up  from  his  whit- 
tling, his  eyes  glinting  under  the  heavy 
brows. 

"  He  must  have  been  a  dear  little 
boy,"  the  Countess  continued,  looking 
absently  at  him.  "  He  was  lame.  One 
poor  little  leg  was  shorter  than  the 
other,  and  his  back  was  not  quite 
straight,  but  only  his  father  and  mother 
cared;  he  did  n't,  because  they  were  so 
good  to  him,  and  he  was  so  happy." 

Saxe  watched  her,  hardly  hearing  her 
words  as  the  pine-cones  he  tossed  into 
the  dying  fire  blazed  up  and  threw  a 
vivid  light  over  her. 

He  had  walked  all  the  afternoon, 
tramping  doggedly  over  the  roughest 
ground  he  could  find,  and  he  was  tired, 
both  mentally  and  physically;  his  feel- 
ings were  deadened,  in  a  comfortable 
way,  so  that  he  was  almost  happy. 
238 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  The  father,  a  big,  strong  man,  used 
to  knot  an  old  shawl  —  a  blue  and  green 
plaid  shawl  it  was,  I  remember  — about 
his  neck  as  Indian  women  do,  and  the 
little  boy  would  sit  in  the  shawl  with 
his  hands  clasped  just  under  his  father's 
chin,  —  and  away  they  would  gallop 
through  the  woods!  The  little  boy 
used  to  pretend  that  his  father  was  a 
horse,  —  named  "  —  She  broke  off.  "  I 
have  forgotten  the  name !  " 

"  '  Bucephale.' " 

It  was  Leduc  who  spoke,  his  voice 
harsh.  Saxe  turned  to  him.  The  old 
man  had  dropped  his  whittling  and 
drawn  back  out  of  the  firelight,  only 
his  big  knotted  hands,  lying  helplessly 
open,  palm  uppermost,  with  loose-curled 
fingers,  being  distinctly  visible.  There 
was  something  very  pathetic  about  those 
hands. 

239 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

The  Countess's  eyes  met  Saxe's,  and 
held  them  for  a  minute,  until  the  chan- 
ging expression  of  his  startled  her,  and 
she  turned  away  with  a  slight  shake  of 
the  head. 

"  The  little  boy  was  very  fond  of  his 
mother,  but  he  loved  his  father  even 
more,  and  when  he  was  ill,  as  he  was 
very  often,  he  used  to  rest  best  when 
his  father  lay  him  on  a  pillow  and  car- 
ried him  up  and  down  before  the  cot- 
tage where  they  lived.  He  used  to  kiss 
his  father's  hair,  and  pat  it  with  his  hot 
hands.  I  have  often  thought,"  went  on 
the  Countess,  in  another  voice,  speak- 
ing very  meditatively,  "  that  it  must 
have  made  the  poor  mother  unhappy  to 
have  the  little  boy  love  his  father  so 
much  more  than  he  loved  her." 

"  I  loved  him  more  than  she  loved 
him,  always !  "  exclaimed  Leduc  fierce- 
240 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ly,  rising  with  clenched  hands.  "  She 
hated  his  being  lame.  She  was  proud, 
ma  femme,  and  resented  his  crooked 
leg.  All  her  people  were  tall  and 
straight,  and  —  she  blamed  me.  I  al- 
ways loved  him  the  more,  —  I  was  a 
scamp,  and  a  lame  child  was  good 
enough  for  me." 

Annette  sat  with  a  white  face  and 
tight-clasped  hands,  looking  at  him,  but 
he  was  not  talking  to  her. 

"  I  know,"  he  went  on,  still  in  French ; 
"you  want  me  to  take  her  to  his  grave; 
you  are  trying  to  work  on  my  feelings. 
You  have  done  it,  I  —  you  have  hurt 
me.  But  she  shall  not  see  it.  It  is 
mine,  and  she  shall  not  spoil  it." 

"  Lucien,  —  I  would  not  spoil  it,  I 
only  want  to  see  it,"  pleaded  the  old 
woman,  rising  too  and  going  to  him. 
The  others  were  forgotten.  "  Why  do 

241 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

you  hate  me  so?  I  did  love  him.  God 
knows  I  loved  him.  I  never  tried  to 
make  him  love  me  more  than  you.  It 
hurt,  but  —  I  was  glad.  I  thought  it 
might  help  you." 

Leduc  looked  down  at  her  with  a 
curious  dignity.  "  If  you  loved  him, 
why  did  you  leave  him  all  alone  ?  " 

"  Lucien !  "  Her  voice  rose  to  a  trem- 
bling cry.  "  I  never  left  him,  never  a 
minute,  except  when  you  had  him,  and 
I  knew  —  he  did  n't  want  me." 

It  was  perhaps  the  most  heart-break- 
ing avowal  a  woman  could  make,  and 
Saxe  started  up,  his  face  hot. 

"  Leduc !  "  he  began,  but  Winifred 
stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  He  caught 
her  hand  and  they  stood  there,  reveren- 
tial, unnoticed  observers  of  the  strange 
scene. 

The  pile  of  shavings  and  the  stick  for- 
242 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

gotten  by  the  old  man  caught  fire  from 
a  spark,  and  threw  flitting  flames  upon 
the  figures  of  the  two  speakers. 

"  I  meant,  —  why  did  you  leave  him 
after  he  was  dead?  He  was  afraid  of 
the  dark,  he  was  afraid  of  the  trees  when 
the  wind  blew,  —  he  was  afraid  of  the 
black  shadows  rushing  over  the  ground. 
He  thought  they  were  beasts.  And  you 
left  him  alone,  —  alone  with  all  these 
things!  " 

Annette  laid  her  hands  on  his  arm. 
"  But —  he  was  dead,  he  did  n't  know  ; 
he  was  n't  there,  he  was  with  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  the  saints." 

Leduc  shook  her  off. 

"  Contes  que  tout  cela!  He  was  there, 
—  there  in  the  black  earth  under  the 
shadows.  He  is  there  still.  And  you 
left  him  alone." 

Winifred's  hand  closed  more  tightly 

243 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

over  Saxe's.  Leduc's  obstinacy  seemed 
invincible. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  while  the 
old  woman,  her  face  hidden  by  her 
hands,  rocked  to  and  fro  without  speak- 
ing. 

Then,  leaving  Saxe,  Winifred  ap- 
proached the  old  man. 

"  Leduc,"  she  said,  gently  using 
Saxe's  name  for  him,  "  don't  you  believe 
in  Heaven  and  the  Blessed  Virgin?  " 

*'  Do  you,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  flushed.  "  Yes,  I  do.  I  believe 
that  Le  Mioche  has  been  there  with  her 
all  these  years." 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  in  Purga- 
tory? "  he  broke  in. 

"  No.    I  don't  know,  —  but  I  believe 

in  God,  —  and  I  know  that  God  would 

n't  leave  le  pauvre  Mioche  all  alone 

there  all  these  years.  Annette  is  a  good 

244 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

Catholic ;  she  has  not  forgotten  him,  but 
she  has  not  thought  of  him  as  in  his 
grave;  she  has  thought  of  him  as  being 
in  Heaven.  Do  you  see?  " 

"  I  did  n't  leave  him  all  alone.  I 
loved  him,"  he  muttered,  a  little  irreso- 
lutely, and  then,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
she  went  on :  — 

"Annette,  Leduc  —  I  mean  Lucien — 
has  gone  every  year  to  the  grave.  Every 
year,  no  matter  where  he  was,  and  laid 
on  it  a  white  stone  in  memory  of  his 
visit.  The  grave  has  been  taken  care 
of  by  him.  You  have  prayed  for  Le 
Mioche,  you  have  not  forgotten  him,  but 
—  you  did  forget  his  grave." 

Annette  uncovered  her  face.  "  Yes, 
I  did.  Lucien,  —  will  you  forgive  me, 
my  man,  and  let  me  see  it  ?  It  is  yours ; 
I  will  not  touch  it.  But  —  oh,  Le 
Mioche,  Le  Mioche! " 

245 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

She  burst  into  hard,  painful  sobs,  and 
went  up  to  him.  Winifred  drew  back 
quietly  and  waited. 

"Annette,  ma  vieille,  don't  cry. 
Come,  I  will  show  you.  You  are  not  to 
cut  the  grass,  —  you  are  to  remember 
that  it  is  mine,  but  —  I  will  let  you  see 
it.  Come." 

The  old  woman  raised  her  head. 
"To-night?  "  she  asked  in  amazement. 

Leduc  put  his  arm  about  her  shoul- 
ders. His  eyes  were  wet,  but  there 
was  condescension  in  every  movement 
as  he  led  her  away. 

"  To-night.  It  is  n't  so  near,"  he 
added,  with  an  unsteady  laugh,  "  but 
then,  it  is  n't  so  far." 


246 


XII 

THE  other  two,  left  alone,  sat  down 
again,  and  Saxe  mechanically  threw 
some  cones  and  sticks  on  the  fire. 

"  A  very  curious  scene,  was  n't  it?  " 
Winifred  said  thoughtfully.  "  I  won- 
der how  far  it  is  possible  to  love,  after 
thirty  years,  a  child  who  died  at  the  age 
of  four." 

"  It  was  n't  only  the  child,"  returned 
Saxe  in  the  same  reflective  tone,  "  it 
was  their  youth,  their  old  love  and  old 
dislike  for  each  other,  —  their  vanity, 
their  obstinacy,  —  all  of  it  together." 

"  He  was  offended  at  the  thought  of 
her  having  left  him,  quite  as  much  as 
by  her  having  left  Le  Mioche,  —  and 

247 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

she  was  irritated,  in  a  way,  by  his  faith- 
fulness to  the  grave." 

Saxe  watched  her  absently.  "Yes. 
Oh,  yes,"  he  answered. 

"  The  beginning  of  the  trouble,"  she 
went  on,  "  was  that  Lucien  threw  her 
down  once,  when  he  was  drunk.  Le 
Mioche  was  born  a  few  months  after, 
—  lame.  She  blamed  her  husband,  and 
said  cruel  things  to  him,  poor  woman; 
it  was  hard  for  her,  and  then,  from  the 
first,  the  little  fellow  preferred  his  fa- 
ther." 

Saxe  did  not  speak,  and  for  a  time 
she  too  was  silent;  then,  a  little  hastily: 
"  I  am  glad  I  stayed.  It  will  be  a  com- 
fort to  her,  poor  thing,  as  long  as  she 
lives,  that  she  saw  the  grave,  and  that 
at  the  end  they  were  —  kind  to  each 
other." 

Saxe  laughed.    "  Yes.     Only,  —  you 
248 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

must  go  by  the  early  train.  Leduc's 
emotionality  will  not  last." 

"  I  know.  Yes,  we  will  take  the 
early  train.  Tell  me,  Dr.  Saxe,  what 
is  the  best  hotel  in  Boston?  We  shall 
stop  over  night  there." 

"  The  Touraine,  I  should  say." 

"  Thanks.  It  would  be  easy  to  go 
direct  to  New  York,  I  suppose,  but  I 
like  to  be  comfortable,  and  I  confess  I 
don't  find  your  much  lauded  dining- 
room  cars  up  to  their  reputation!  " 

"  I  never  lauded  them." 

"  I  don't  mean  you  personally,  of 
course.  I  mean  all  Americans  in  Eu- 
rope. Americans  are  so  tremendously 
patriotic  in  Europe." 

Saxe  frowned  impatiently. 

"  Hang  Americans  in  Europe !  "  he 
exclaimed,  throwing  a  branch  into  the 
fire  with  a  force  that  sent  a  shower  of 

249 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

ashes  and  sparks  out  into  the  darkness. 
An  owl  hooted. 

She  laughed  softly.  "  How  very  rude 
you  are!  " 

He  did  not  answer,  and  again  they 
were  silent,  neither  looking  at  the  other. 
The  moonlight  no  longer  reached  them, 
and  the  night  was  dark  but  for  the  red 
firelight;  the  wind  had  gone  down,  and 
silence  brooded  on  the  quiet  trees. 

At  last,  without  moving,  Saxe  spoke. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  "  why 
women  have  their  feelings  so  much  bet- 
ter  under  control  than  men.  It  is  either 
that  they  have  better  disciplined  wills, 
or  —  less  strength  of  feeling." 

"  The  latter,  I  should  say,"  she  an- 
swered. "Women  are  weaker  physi- 
cally and  mentally  than  men,  —  why  not 
emotionally?  " 

•"  You  must  be  right.      Probably  if 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

you  were  at  this  moment  feeling  one 
tenth  of  what  I  feel,  you  would  cry 
out." 

"  Probably.  So  it  is  just  as  well  that 
matters  are  as  they  are." 

Saxe  watched  her  as  she  spoke.  "  Yes. 
It  may  interest  you  to  know,"  he  went 
on  in  the  same  even  voice,  "  that  if  I 
were  not  convinced  of  the  cowardice 
of  such  an  act,  I  should  shoot  myself 
to-night." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  are  convinced 
of  the  cowardice  of  such  an  act.  You 
are  also  probably  convinced,  as  I  am, 
of  the  fleeting  nature  of  most  emotions. 
What  is  the  song  Leduc  sings:  'Un 
peu  d'amour,  un  peu  de  haine,  et 
puis ' "  — 

"  <  Et  puis  bonsoir! '     Yes." 

"  To-night  you  are  —  sorry  I  am  go- 
ing, —  but  in  a  month  you  will  be  glad 

251 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

I  did  go,  and  in  giving  you  a  month  I 
am  unnecessarily  generous." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to-morrow,  as  far  as 
that  is  concerned,  but  —  it  will  all  hurt 
none  the  less." 

"  It  hurts  me,  too,"  she  said,  relent- 
ing a  little,  and  then  sorry,  as  he  laughed. 

"My  dear  child!  Thank  you;  you 
are  kind.  It  may  hurt  you  a  little;  I 
believe  that  it  will,  —  but  you  are  young, 
and  this  is  the  last  of  my  youth." 

"  Nonsense !     You  are  forty-two !  " 

"  Yes.  But  this  is  the  last,  as  it  was 
almost  the  first,  of  my  youth.  You  are 
young,  and  I  am  old.  That  is  the  dif- 
ference." 

She  started  as  if  to  speak,  and  then 
was  silent,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  the  fin- 
gers edged  with  flame  in  the  firelight. 

At  length  she  turned,  looking  full  at 
him  for  the  first  time. 
252 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  When  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you, 
what  did  you  think  I  meant  ?  " 

"  I  knew.     I  knew  "  — 

"  But  you  think  that  I,  a  woman  of 
nearly  thirty,  a  woman  who  has  been 
eating  her  heart  out  in  a  horrible  loneli- 
ness for  years,  did  not  know  what  I  was 
saying.  That  I  loved  you  for  a  week, 
for  a  month.  That  —  all  this  —  has  been 
a  pleasant  little  romantic  episode  on 
which  I  should  look  back  with  a  smile, 

—  you  thought  all  these  things,  because 
I  can  talk  and   laugh,  and  —  ask  you 
about  —  hotels  ?     In  a  word,  because  I 
do  not  mourn  and  sentimentalize,  as  you 
would  like  to  have  me." 

"  Stop !  I  never  wanted  you  to  mourn 
and  "  - 

"  Wait.    Now,  just  before  I  go  away, 

—  and   it  is  to  be  '  bonsoir,'  —  I  must 
tell  you,  in  a  way  that  you  will  remem- 

253 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

her,  that  I  love  you  with  every  bit  of 
me,  and  that  as  long  as  I  live  I  shall 
love  you." 

She  leaned  over,  laying  one  hand  on 
his  arm.  With  a  sort  of  groan  he  shook 
her  off. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  he  said  breath- 
lessly. 

He  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  for 
a  few  seconds  without  speaking. 

"  God  bless  you  for  saying  that,"  he 
went  on,  as  she  rose,  facing  him.  "  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  it  hurts  you.  I  wish 
I  could  have  it  all." 

She  smiled.  "  No,  dearest,  I  would 
not  give  up  my  share.  It  is  a  sorrow 
sweeter  than  all  the  happiness  in  the 
world.  It  is  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  "- 

Suddenly  she  reached  out  and  took 
off  his  glasses,  as  she  had  done  at  the 
254 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

grave  of  Le  Mioche.     His  eyes  were 
wet. 

They  were  hard,  brilliant  eyes,  of 
a  kind  to  which  such  moisture  looks 
almost  impossible. 

With  a  little  cry  she  hid  her  face  on 
his  arm  and  held  it  there  until,  breathing 
hard,  he  turned  his  head  and  kissed  her. 

"  Ah,  it  is  hard,  it  is  hard,"  she  cried, 
holding  him  tight.  "  I  cannot  say  '  Bon- 
soir  '  —  I  cannot." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  hair.  "  Dear, 
—  we  must.  It  is  no  good,  we  must." 

Her  little  outburst  of  passion  was 
spent.  "  Yes.  Of  course  we  must. 
Hush,  —  there  they  come.  We  must 
take  the  first  train,  —  for  it  is  n't  only 
Leduc  whose  mood  will  not  last "  — 

Leduc  was  singing  as  they  came,  a 
song  they  both  knew.  "  (  Ah,  vous  di- 
rais-je  Maman '  "  — 

255 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Le  Mioche  loved  it,"  whispered 
Winifred.  "  Richard,  —  promise  me  on 
your  word  of  honor  never  to  write  to 


me." 


"  I  promise  on  my  word  of  honor." 

u  Even  if  I  —  should  write  —  you." 

"Even  if —     I  cannot!  " 

"You  must!" 

"  Even  if  you  should  write  to  me." 

In  the  darkness  they  waited. 

"  i  Papa  veut  que  je  raisonne  '  "  — 
Annette  was  singing  with  him. 

"  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

"  '  Bonsoir,'  "  added  Winifred. 

"'Bonsoir!'" 

"  Here  's  the  lantern,  Leduc ;  light  it, 
it  is  late." 

"  Oui,  M'sieu." 

"  So  you  saw  the  grave,  Annette  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mad'moiselle.  The  trees  have 
256 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

grown  big,  but  they  are  the  same  trees. 
And  we  are  grown  old,  but  we  are  the 
same  people." 

"  We  must  go  to-morrow  morning, 
you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  returned  the  old 
woman  composedly.  "  It  is  best.  To- 
night we  have  been  very  happy,  but  we 
are  the  same  people  we  used  to  be, — 
to-morrow  we  should  quarrel.  We  are 
old,  and  I  suppose  we  shall  never  meet 
again.  It  is  better  so,  —  but  this  night 
will  always  be  a  happy  memory." 

Winifred  turned  as  they  left  the  camp, 
and  looked  back  at  the  now  lonely  fire. 
For  a  second  she  stood  quite  still,  and 
then  followed  Leduc  and  Annette,  who 
carried  the  lantern. 

"  Hotel  Touraine,  you  said,"  she  re- 
marked, as  they  reached  the  wagon  and 
Leduc  waked  young  Cobb. 

257 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

"  Yes.  It  is  a  very  good  one.  I  hope 
you  will  have  a  pleasant  summer." 

"  Thanks.  All  good  wishes  for  your 
books,  and  —  the  laboratory." 

Leduc  embraced  his  wife  with  a  kind 
of  tender  gallantry  not  unmixed  with 
relief,  and  the  two  women  got  into  the 
wagon. 

"  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

Cobb  flapped  the  reins  on  the  back  of 
his  horse,  and  the  wagon  started  with  a 
jerk. 

When  it  was  almost  out  of  sight, 
Winifred  called  softly,  — 

"'Bonsoir.'" 

" i  Bonsoir.' " 

Leduc  sighed  ostentatiously.  "  Mon 
Dieu,  mon  Dieu.  i  Bonsoir  '  reminds 
me  of  the  song." 

As  they  went  back,  following  the 
258 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

dancing  light  of  the  lantern,  the  old  man 
raised  his  voice  and  sang  cheerfully:  — 

"  '  La  vie  est  breve, 
Un  peu  d'espoir, 
Un  peu  de  reve, 
Et  puis  —  bonsoir ! ' 

That  is  very  true,  M'sieu.  Leduc  has 
found  it  very  true,  and  Leduc  is  old,  and 
knows." 

Saxe  laughed. 

"  Leduc  is  a  very  wise  man.  Does 
he  know,  among  other  things,  where  the 
whiskey  is  ?  " 

As  he  poured  out  a  glass  by  the  lan- 
tern's light,  Saxe  laughed  again. 

"'Et  puis  —  bonsoir!'" 


259 


Eltctrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &•  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


A"    '  *        II     II 
000  115570 


